Out of the Ashes
by nine miles to go
Summary: ..."And one day, you catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed...so you'd be spared your pain." Rachel survived the infamous explosion. After a year of hiding, can she manage to save Bruce from himself?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to Batman.

* * *

Out of the Ashes

All Rachel Dawes heard for a long while was roaring in her ears. Unbelievable, unfathomable, unbearable. How could a human endure this noise? More than anything she wanted to clap her hands over her ears, a gut reaction to the pulsing noise, but her hands were still tied behind her back. The burning roar around her continued to build as if it were swelling around her, swallowing her up.

It shouldn't be much longer now. Her eyes were clamped tight—curious and demanding as she usually was, she had no desire to watch the flames consume her. Odd, that she didn't feel anything yet. As far as she knew, a catalyst as thorough as oil would catch even the tiniest flame within milliseconds. And this hadn't been a mere flame, but a detonator. That's what she'd seen, attached to the timer. Attached to the last link of communication she had with Harvey.

Harvey. Was he alive? It would be such a waste if he died along with her. Not that she was self-absorbed enough to say that his life was worth more than hers, but she was woman enough to face that Harvey Dent had a significantly larger influence on improving Gotham than she did. If he stayed alive, if their "friends" were smart enough to choose him over her, then Gotham had a chance. Harvey would reform their city, he would do whatever it took to clean out these streets in her name. She knew him well enough by now to know that he would stop at nothing. That's why she'd said yes. That's why she'd wanted to marry him.

But now she was dead.

Or at least she was supposed to be. In her stream of thoughts the roar had gradually dulled. She could still hear her own heart thumping wildly and a vague ringing in her ears, but other than that it was complete silence.

Tentatively she opened her eyes. The sight of it all was so shocking that she felt tears spring into her eyes, blurring the whole scene. "Oh, God," she moaned, incapable of thinking much else. She dug her chin into her chest, trying to block it all out, erase it. "How can I still be here?"

The wall to her right was completely blown away, exposing a row of abandoned office cubicles. The rest of the room was completely untouched. Frozen in time. A few pieces of the wall had blown around the huge expanse, but otherwise it was every bit the same.

The ringing in her ears started to recede. She was aware that the link to Harvey was crackling.

"Harvey?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. Tears of remorse were flooding down her cheeks. So they'd chosen her—the Joker had played his game and Batman had chosen Rachel, as she knew and feared he would.

Harvey Dent was dead. And she, Rachel Dawes, was still here.

"Harvey," she wept into the broken speaker. "Harvey, please, no."

It was then that the silence was broken. Someone had pushed the door behind her open—a shudder of fear coursed up her spine, wondering who the intruder was. She pursed her lips in a determined line and tried to straighten herself up. What more could they do to punish her, now that Harvey was dead?

"It's alright. It's fine." The woman's voice was wobbling with grief.

Rachel didn't utter a word until the woman came into her sightline. A cop from Gordon's unit. She couldn't remember the woman's name right off the bat.

"It's, uh, Detective Ramirez. Anna Ramirez." There were streaks of tears glittering on her cheeks. She looked every bit as grief-stricken as Rachel felt. Despite her frazzled countenance she immediately set to work on untying Rachel, muttering with regret, "I'm so sorry. Rachel . . . Miss Dawes. I'm—"

"Why?" Rachel managed. Her hands were free and she let them fall loosely to her side.

Ramirez shook her head. "I have to get you out of here."

"Well, yes," Rachel agreed, "but how did you—?"

"I have no time to explain." Ramirez finished undoing the ropes around her feet and stood with a clipped and businesslike manner. Rachel could tell that the detective was in full-blown crisis mode, and although she could believe that under the circumstances there would be reason for alarm, she could not entirely comprehend what was happening.

"You have no time to explain?" Rachel repeated dumbly.

Ramirez grabbed her hands and hoisted her to her feet. If the detective hadn't been holding to her arms so tightly Rachel was sure she would have fallen over, she felt so limp and helpless. An irrational thought passed through her head, and she wished Bruce were with her. Bruce would know what to do. Every time she'd been in trouble he had come to her aid.

Illogical tears flew up from her cheeks again. Where was Bruce?

The hands were pulling her forward. Rachel wished this woman would just leave her alone, leave her here so she could crumple into herself and mourn in peace. She had never felt so completely and irrevocably despaired.

"Listen." Ramirez's voice sounded too warbling and unsure to be firm with anyone, but Rachel looked toward her with unseeing eyes nonetheless. "Listen, Rachel. You _must_ come with me. You have to."

Rachel shook her head and choked out, "No, no I don't." She sounded like a cranky little kid and she knew it.

For a moment Ramirez seemed to struggle with words, but she was at least faster on her feet than Rachel. "This is my fault. And if I don't get you out of here in the next minute, people are going to notice that this side of the building didn't blow and they're going to come after you."

Sirens in the distance. Rachel barely registered them.

"Is Harvey . . . ?" She couldn't bring herself to say it aloud. Her voice had been so soft that Ramirez hadn't even heard her. Instead of providing her with an answer she was intent on pushing Rachel out the door and into the humid air of Gotham's streets.

"Follow me."

With a lack of any other sensible course of action, Rachel followed her into an alley, ducking with her behind a Dumpster. The approaching sirens blared nearby—pulled right in front of them, parked on the street corner—

"Cover your ears!" Ramirez screamed over the chaos.

Puzzled, Rachel obliged, only to hear the profound crack erupt from the building she'd just exited. The ground rumbled menacingly beneath her feet and she buried her head in her knees, leaning against the Dumpster to keep her shaky balance. She screamed but couldn't hear herself above the catastrophic thundering.

Then flames were dancing around the building, licking it up and engulfing it as it crumbled within itself. Rachel gaped at it, open-mouthed and unintelligible.

"Oh my God." She took her hands off her ears and stared motionlessly at disastrous pit that had only moments before had walls and a roof.

"Miss Dawes?"

"Rachel," she corrected her vaguely.

"Rachel. We need to get out of here."

Not too far away she could make out the figure of Gordon, thrashing angrily by the curb. From where she stood his shouting was incoherent, but she could read the grief and wild frustration in his eyes. Finally she came to her senses. "Does he think I'm dead?" she asked lowly.

Ramirez opened her mouth, about to lie. When Rachel glared at her she seemed to change her mind. "Yes. He does." Then she took Rachel's hand to pull her away again.

"Can't we say something to him?" Rachel demanded.

"No!" Ramirez hissed at her. "No, no, we really can't. You don't understand now."

Rachel stood her ground. "Then _explain_."

"I can't!" Ramirez exploded, her face reddening in frustration. "You wanna be alive in ten minutes? Then you're coming with me _right now_ and you'll stop asking questions. Understand?"

Again, the irrational thought, so tempting and persistent—She needed Bruce here. He'd know what to do. Find Gordon, or trust this absolute stranger? She searched this woman's eyes.

"You're a part of Gordon's unit. You're turning you're back on him?"

Ramirez shook her head. "No. No, I'm saving you. Now let's _go_."

Her voice was so rattled and insistent that Rachel forced herself to nod. Ramirez looked away from her, pained, and grabbed her by the arm.

"When can I come back?" Rachel asked, her throat thick.

Ramirez didn't answer.

I promise you'll see some Bruce in the next chapter--I just had to set the foundation to the plot first.


	2. One

She stared vacantly up at the chalkboard, her mind someplace else entirely.

"Miss Jameson?"

More often than not she would think of Bruce when she let her mind wander. It was odd, knowing that he was literally only a phone call and four blocks away, and yet she hadn't contacted him in over a year. After she left him that letter she figured there was nothing left to say. He'd read it. He'd seen her choice, and she knew that if she revealed herself to him it would only pull him into another world of pain.

"Miss Jameson?"

"Yes, dear." She snapped out of her reverie, turning to meet the eyes of a cherubic little first grade boy.

"I finished my noodle drawing." The boy beamed up at her, displaying his work of art with pride.

"Oh, wow, Michael. It's magnificent," she encouraged him, taking the noodle drawing from him. "I'm sure your mother will love it."

"She'll get it tonight?" he asked hopefully.

She nodded. "Tonight at the benefit all the parents will see your portfolios," she promised him.

Which was the current predicament on her mind. Since she had started working at this somewhat rundown elementary school, she hadn't encountered any real problems. Aside from the occasional kid unleashing a temper tantrum or a potential overbearing parent, Rachel would dare to say her job was easy in comparison to the D.A.'s office. She certainly wasn't making as much as she had before, but she had plenty of money saved for rent and other necessities.

It was only now that the issue had reared its ugly head: what to do about Bruce Wayne.

Rumor had it that Mr. Wayne himself was attending their school's benefit tonight, an event she couldn't rightfully skip out on as the only first grade teacher on staff. Not that he'd be likely to recognize her—her hair was an artfully dyed honey blonde, her contact lenses green, her skin tan from too many afternoons policing the playground at recess. She looked nothing like Rachel Dawes. And if that weren't enough to separate her completely from her past identity, she was now sporting the god-awful name of Fisher Jameson.

Ramirez's idea, not hers. Last year when Ramirez had plucked her out of the Joker's clutches, she'd made the incredibly sneaky move of creating an alternate identity for Rachel, and somehow came up with the crackpot name Fisher. Before Rachel could so much as protest, Ramirez had forged up a driver's license, insurance card, and degree in Education under the unsuited name.

It was supposed to be temporary. Wait six months or so for all the mayhem to simmer down, and then she could return to her usual life. Her boss down at the D.A. knew she was still alive and was keeping her position open; he and Ramirez were the only people in Gotham City who knew she hadn't really burned to death. Besides that she'd told her parents and her sister, but they were so far away that they hadn't heard of all the horror in Gotham in the first place.

The six months had passed. A whole year had passed, and Rachel knew she was living a lie. But it was easier to live this lie and hide in it like a bubble than it was to face the fact that one day her fake license would expire and she'd have no other choice but to reveal herself once more.

She wasn't ready. For months she hadn't been. It was absurd—she had absolutely nothing to lose, now that the Joker was in Arkham and very few people harbored fervent desires to see her murdered. For awhile she thought she was too afraid to delve back into her life because she'd have to come to terms with Harvey's death. But she'd accepted it, after a long while of sleepless nights wondering how and why, after he was supposed to have survived. Still no one would provide her with answers—when she brought it up, the subject of Harvey's mysterious death, Ramirez flinched and refused to say anything. Holding back.

After a year, though, she wasn't so much heartbroken as she was curious. Harvey didn't "fall off a building" in a struggle with Batman. She knew Bruce well enough to know that he'd never pick a fight with Gotham's white knight and she knew Harvey well enough to know he wouldn't pick a fight with anyone.

Rachel learned to let it go. Over the months she'd let a lot of her life go, because it was easier to be Fisher Jameson when she wasn't constantly fixated on Rachel Dawes.

After that she thought her worst fear would be all the media attention her return would undoubtedly spark, but if Rachel hadn't had a high tolerance for pandemonium and irritating reporters she wouldn't have worked in the D.A.'s Office in the first place. Not to mention her talent for being discrete. With her quiet nature it would be all too easy to slip back into her normal routine.

Finally, her last and final worry was that maybe she liked being Fisher Jameson. Maybe she didn't mind being a teacher in this rundown little school, living in a tiny apartment, touching up her dark roots every two weeks to maintain her persona. Maybe she enjoyed the couple of friends she'd made down at the corner store, the monthly faculty get-togethers, the toothless little children who so willingly put their hearts in her hands.

Yes. It was true. She loved being Fisher Jameson.

But she would do anything to be Rachel Dawes again.

So why not? What was holding her back? There was no danger, no reluctance, no anxiety. It would only take a phone call or two. Ramirez had been bothering her about it for weeks—the detective would probably leap at the chance to put Operation Rachel Dawes into effect so fast it would make her head spin.

It took this new circumstance to finally understand what it was that made her spine tingle at the very thought of revealing herself: Bruce Wayne.

The bell rang. "Remember to tell you parents—the benefit starts at seven o'clock tonight. Be safe crossing streets!" Rachel—no, Fisher, or someone, she didn't want to dwell on it anymore—called out to the students as they shuffled out of the rooms.

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. Even when he repulsed her he continued to be the most complicated matter in her life—Did she love him? Was it just the old childhood friendship clouding her eyes? Or the persona of Batman forcing her to see clearly? It was all so muddled that she didn't know whether or not she could picture herself with Bruce, marrying him and raising a family one day. Because with Bruce, it seemed, it was all or nothing. Friends, or married with three kids.

It was too dangerous a decision to make. It was her whole life.

Then there was the other little issue of Bruce still thinking she was dead. No doubt over the past year he'd pushed her to the back of his mind the same way she'd stifled her thoughts of Harvey. How would she feel if Harvey were to come back from the dead? She couldn't do that to Bruce. It wouldn't be fair to him.

And even worse was the letter she'd left for him, telling him that she'd chosen Harvey. It had probably broken his heart. How flighty and disloyal she would seem if she were to burst back into his life without any warning, then convince him that she loved him and not a long dead D.A.

Assuming, of course, that she loved him. She still couldn't tell. It was so vexing, reading fairy tales to the kids in class. The heroines were always so infallibly, undeniably in love; it was always the other little pieces of the story that threw them off, but in the end they were still in love and happy as clams. Rachel knew she would eventually have that happy ending. But would it be with Bruce? How could she be so certain she loved him? How could anyone be certain if they loved another person? No wonder they were fairy tales. That sort of love, so simple and unquestionable, could not be real.

Her cell phone rang. The caller ID read RAMIREZ, ANNA.

She ignored it again.

* * *

Bruce was stalling. The tie was halfway adjusted on his neck but he'd paused as if lost in an unfamiliar room . . . he knew it was dangerous, considering his line of work, but lately he'd been doing just this. Blinking and freezing in place, as if he couldn't remember what he was doing, why he was doing it. What for? It was a tie, he'd been tying it. He let his arms fall to his sides uselessly. Tonight he was going somewhere, but he couldn't quite remember. A moment ago he'd had a plan of exactly how the night was going to happen, a schedule, and idea of what car he was driving, when he was going to duck out of the party, what section of the Narrows he was going to patrol tonight.

Now it was all a blank.

A minute might have passed. Or an hour. This sort of thing only happened once every few days, and Bruce had learned to relish it to some degree. At least when his mind felt so flushed out and empty he didn't have to remember anything. It was relieving, in a way.

"Master Wayne?"

Damn it all. "Alfred." Just like that he was hyperaware again. He was going to a benefit at Central Gotham 12 Elementary School. The car was coming for him at 7:30 and coming back at 9:00. He was planning to donate upwards of two hundred thousand dollars, smile a little, shake a few hands, and get out of there before his mask had the opportunity to crumble apart.

Then, like all nights without fail, he would take off his mask and don another. He would go to the docks tonight—rumors hinted of unaccounted for shipments under Wayne Enterprises name. Something to keep him busy until something more exciting happened, although most of the nights were dull now that the streets were nearly devoid of all criminals. Bruce had certainly made sure of that. In the months after . . . the event, Bruce had painstakingly spent every available hour in pursuit of the escaped criminals, a feat which proved taxing beyond belief and yet satisfying. He'd needed it to distract him.

Now that there was nothing pressing enough to distract him, Bruce spent most of his nights patrolling. Maybe Gotham didn't need a Batman anymore—God knew he'd been too thorough to let any petty criminal slip through the cracks, and anyone he hadn't caught was too terrified to step foot outside their front door at night. But without anything to keep him occupied, Bruce had taken to this unfortunate habit of spacing out without any notice.

Thinking of her. Wondering what he could have possibly done to stop it from happening. Knowing that he brought this on her himself. How his conscience felt like a rock on his chest that steadily increased in weight with every passing day . . . she could have saved Gotham. Rachel Dawes could have saved them, using her own name and face. She wasn't a coward who hid in the night under the guise of a bat.

He knew he was being a tad irrational. Rachel probably wouldn't have saved Gotham, but at least she was one of the few trying. And he'd let her die . . .

"The car is waiting outside." Alfred's voice snapped him back into the present, the sitting room of the newly-constructed manor, where his tie was still hanging limp on his neck.

"Ah. Yes. Of course," Bruce muttered, in action in less than a second. The tie was fixed, his shoes were impeccably shiny, and he was as ready as he was every going to be. "See you later tonight, then."

Alfred stared long and hard at him. He'd been doing that lately—Bruce wished he wouldn't. The old butler looked at him as though searching for something he could never quite find. Bruce was afraid he was worrying his mentor, despite all his effort to keep up appearances.

"I may turn in early tonight," Alfred warned him.

"By all means, don't stay up," Bruce assured him. "It may run late."

Alfred took a tentative breath, about to say something. Bruce walked swiftly toward his escape, taking long, purposeful strides toward the front door to try to deter the butler from saying anything more, but he wasn't fast enough. "Master Wayne?"

Bruce looked back.

"Remember your limits," Alfred said lowly, with a warning smile.

Trying to keep it light, Bruce rolled his eyes. "You worry too much. Take a day off, would you? Go . . . find a hot date, or something. Yeesh." Then he left before Alfred could reply.

* * *

The affair was an all-smiles one. It made his face ache, greeting so many people, acting so casual and suave. He knew he was good at it. May he be struck by lightning if he was not the best damn actor in this whole school cafeteria, in the whole city of Gotham. It was so easy to crack a joke and slick back his hair showily. So easy to nod at some nameless faces, to whip out a checkbook and buy something he didn't need to keep up appearances, to raise his eyebrows at a pretty girl.

His entire life as Bruce Wayne now seemed an out-of-body experience. He'd given himself a makeover since the event, tweaking his own persona so that he was more actively involved in charity work and reform. Nothing drastic, but just enough so if—_when—_Batman was no longer needed, he could still help Gotham without being completely out of character.

Sometimes it irked him that Bruce was the character in this sick little play, but he kept it to himself continued to act with all the others.

A small child slammed into him, then gawked up, astonished. Bruce, of course, hadn't even flinched—he made a mental note to be more believably shoved backward the next time he was greeted with such anomaly—but every person in the room immediately turned their attention toward him. Which was irritating to say in the least.

"Whoa, there, bud," Bruce laughed, tousling the kid's hair. "Careful."

The kid's cheeks flamed up like strawberries and he ran to his mom. Bruce surveyed the room and saw that people were gradually starting to turn their attention away from him. He sighed and headed resignedly toward the drink table, where they were serving water and some cheese-and-cracker variations. Might as well grab some dinner.

On his way to the table he grew uncomfortably aware of someone staring at him. He didn't turn around, hoping that they pair of eyes would eventually divert away from him, but as usual he was not quite so lucky.

A few more handshakes and a visit from the principal, vice principal, and several of the counselors and teachers later, Bruce was still feeling the restless itch of someone staring. Out of habit he didn't look up. Better to let the enemy believe that they hadn't been spotted. A rule that by no means applied to this situation, but still reigned out of habit.

Against his better judgment he turned around to face whoever was so boldly staring him down. It took a moment, but finally he saw her.

His first instinct was to recoil from the sight. It was her, it had to be. What other girl stood that way, with one foot tentatively placed in front of the other, with her hands clasping at her waist? What other girl bit her lip, looking so sure and unsure at the same time, or let her hair fall in a curtain in front of her before idly snapping it back behind her ear?

She was blonde. That much he could see from this distance, and it was the only reason he didn't immediately jump back. That, and he was so damn good at this whole charade that he could keep it up even under circumstances as heart-wrenching as this.

Maybe someone was playing a joke on him. But who would know enough about him, enough about Rachel, to do that sort of thing? Who would even want to?

"Rachel," he muttered under his breath before he could stop himself.

The woman reacted. The Rachel-who-could-not-possibly-be-Rachel jumped a bit, as if their sudden eye contact sent a pulse through her entire body. She looked away self-consciously.

It wasn't Rachel. It couldn't be.

Rachel was dead.

"Excuse me," Bruce managed. Someone had started talking to him, but being Bruce Wayne was far from his priority list right now. He needed to get out of here before he lost composure. It had been years since he'd let himself physically shake and he couldn't stop himself. If he didn't get out now he was sure he would regret it.

"Sir?"

Bruce blew past the sycophantic vice principal, headed straight for the door.

* * *

Rachel shouldn't have stared at him the way she had. She'd only set herself up for disaster.

But Bruce was a wreck. Now she couldn't blame the sallow, hollowed-out way about him on bad camera lighting in the newspaper. His expressions seemed to stretch out painfully on his face. It was as if someone had taken a nail file to him and gritted him into nothingness.

Of course outwardly he seemed the same. Only someone as close as she was with Bruce could tell that his cheeks looked sunken, that his eyes looked dull, that he seemed to walk in a fretting, clipped way. Otherwise he was just Bruce Wayne, smiling and 

easygoing and suave. These people here knew nothing. They all swarmed around him and tittered about what an honor it was, but they didn't see him as a person. They couldn't tell he was suffering. They didn't do anything.

And neither did she, hypocrite she was. The real Rachel Dawes would have flown to his side at once. She would have waited patiently for days, even, until he finally confessed his troubles to her. She wouldn't have silently hid herself and lived a lie.

It seemed that Fisher Jameson hated to see Bruce in such pain, but was too cowardly to do anything about it.

Inevitably he turned around. The guy was practically inhuman--of course he'd notice her gaping over at him like a half-drowned fish.

When he found her she looked away quickly. He wouldn't recognize her. Nobody had, not in months. Besides, she was a clear fifty feet away from him, nothing more than a figure with blonde hair.

But even from this distance she could see the pain ripple across his face. He looked winded, his lips parting in surprise, his expression blank. She saw him mouth the word and she knew she had lost: _"Rachel." _

Then he left. Just like that, he was gone, tearing his way through the crowd and out the back door.

"No," she whispered. Without thinking she left her booth. Someone would take care of it. She pushed her way through the sea of warm bodies, with one persistent and clear thought in her mind: _Find Bruce. Find him before it's too late. _


	3. Two

It was raining. How perfectly cliché. How perfectly, absurdly _fitting. _

The sky was sweltering, buzzing around him with an impatient and blistering wind. The sun had been settling into the horizon when he'd arrived, but now it was completely dark, save for the faint light emanating from the school parking lot. It made him itch. His fingers were trembling—he needed to be jumping, dodging, defying all leaps and bounds. He needed it like a drug. It was night already and here he was standing outside of some school without a car or any legitimate reason for leaving—

He realized he was gulping for air and he stopped. The beauty of being constantly self-aware was that he could turn off his own panic.

But he couldn't stop his heart from pounding. _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. _Taunting him. Who the hell was that woman? Was he so far off the deep end that he was honestly mistaking complete strangers for his dead best friend?

Now he'd stopped breathing. Shit. Breathe in, breathe out. Bruce Wayne wasn't a pansy. Bruce Wayne didn't get the heebie-jeebies over something so stupid and nonsensical. Bruce Wayne didn't _run away _when something startled him, damn it. He was stronger than that.

Reasonable thinking. That's what he needed. First off, he needed to think of some alibi, some reason for being outside and barreling through about fifty people in a crowd to get out. "To get some fresh air" was clearly out of the question, because that was billionaire playboy speak for "I thought that teacher was hot and I was hoping she'd leave with me . . . aw, crap, how'd _that_ get printed in every paper between here and Metropolis?"

Bruce wasn't in the mood.

He could say his phone had rang and he wanted to take the call outside. Since talking inside the gym full of people would have been rude. But since when did Bruce Wayne ever care what other people thought of his manners?

The door opened behind him and he stepped into the shadows. Instinctively he knew it was _her. _That freak of a woman who defied the laws of nature with her uncanny resemblance. She clicked her high heels like Rachel did. He could hear her—he pretended he couldn't, he wished he couldn't, but she was there, click-clacking shoes and all.

"Bruce?"

He forgot to breath again. He stared at into the openness of the school's meager soccer field. Past the basketball court and through the thick clump of trees. Staring without seeing, too afraid to tear his eyes away from the scene.

She stepped forward again. Bruce had never felt so unprepared in his life. For all of his extensive training and technique, for all the life of him, he could only stand like a deer in headlights. A sitting duck. So absolutely petrified that he couldn't even tell if he was at all within her sightline or not.

"Bruce," she said again. Her voice cracked like Rachel's did and he felt as if his chest had suddenly collapsed on him. As if that tiny break in her voice had squeezed his heart to stop it from beating.

His head was swimming. _Take control. _He gritted his teeth. He was better than this. Batman could . . . Batman would just jump up onto that ledge, silent as the whiz of a muffled bullet passing. Disappear into the night like no more than fine dust.

A hand touched his shoulder and he just about leaped out of his own skin. Every muscle in his body tensed to compensate for the sudden shiver that spiraled up his body. His legs felt as if they might just cave in from underneath him, but he could trust himself. At least he could five minutes ago. Had it even been five minutes? It might have been an hour. He had no concept of time, no concept of anything anymore . . .

Maybe Rachel had never been dead. Yes. He'd dreamed the entire thing up, this last year had been a terrible nightmare. All the late, fruitless nights, the unfulfilled goals, the dead ends and hopelessness. Waking up every morning on two hours of sleep with absolutely nothing to look forward to. Leaping at any opportunity to punish wrongdoing, but never feeling the satisfaction of a job well done.

_Let it be a nightmare. _

The hand didn't move. It might have been the lightest touch, but it felt so heavy resting there on his shoulder.

Her voice was lower, a whisper and a plea. "Bruce . . ."

Bruce _what_? What the hell did she want from him? What was there left of him to take? Nothing. Bruce Wayne was absolutely nothing, he had nothing. How dare she come back from the dead to haunt him like this when there was nothing more of him left.

"Just look at me," she begged.

_Look at me._ He remembered those words. The Joker, taunting his videotaped victim. Taunting Rachel _Look. At. Me! _

"Why," he muttered. Not so much a question as it was a groan. She tried to step in front of him but he jerked his head away, spurning her.

"It's _me_. It's—"

"No, it's not," Bruce managed through gritted teeth. He had to cut her off before she said the name. The unspeakable name. "You're . . . she's dead."

"Would you just listen to me?" Impatient, as always. For all of her goodwill toward mankind, Rachel could be one incredibly impatient woman. All the more proof that it was her.

His throat was thick as he swallowed. "I shouldn't." There was always the possibility that he was hallucinating this. Not even the amazing Bruce Wayne could write that one off if he were caught.

"I didn't die, Bruce. I'm alive. Last year—"

"Last year you were blown into smithereens." His voice was so cold that it was almost unrecognizable, even to himself. He sounded callous. He had to—it was the only way he could speak without letting the emotion creep into his voice. "Last year an entire building imploded around you and burned you to death."

A few beats of silence later she spoke again. "I'll explain if you'll listen."

Bruce didn't say anything. He closed his eyes, still facing away from her. He was just so tired of this. Let the hallucination speak. Dreaming of Rachel was better than no Rachel at all. For however long she was here he could make himself believe that maybe he hadn't killed her. That maybe she was okay and he didn't have to have her death constantly weighing on his conscience. Ripping apart the one link to a normal life, to love, to happiness, that he'd ever had.

He knew he was selfish to think of her that way, but how could he help it? How could anyone? He'd been in love with her since middle school. He knew her better than he knew anyone in the world.

Which made the hallucination all the more unnerving. She was Rachel, down to every last detail.

"That night when the Joker had me kidnapped, he'd infiltrated the police force. Specifically Ramirez, from Gordon's unit."

Bruce had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out. He knew this, of course. This whole year he had only spared her out of an inhuman sense of self-control that seemed ready to give way at any moment.

"But she didn't betray us. She tampered with the explosives—"

"Ramirez is a _traitor_," Bruce spat, unable to stop himself.

"No. No, no, she saved me. Only part of a building blew and she got me out. I was gone by the time the rest of the—"

"Harvey's _coin_." Bruce's protest was pathetic. He heard the waver in his voice and cursed himself, but he couldn't stop the shaking. The disbelief, the grief that had become such a part of him. "The coin, it was burned, you had . . ."

"Planted. Ramirez planted it as evidence."

"But I saw that coin . . ." Bruce shuddered. He felt her step forward, parallel to him now. She draped an arm around his shoulder. It was vaguely unsettling how simple and familiar it seemed to have the crook of her arm so casually draped around him. Still he didn't move.

"I know this is a lot to take in. I was planning on telling you—"

"When?" Bruce asked softly. He'd meant to scream it to high heaven, echo it into the uncaring sky, but it came out little more than a hoarse whisper.

He must have shocked her into silence. After a moment he finally turned his head, his eyes edging cautiously toward her. Her eyes were filled with tears. Green eyes. They weren't hers, but they were the same as ever.

"It's been a year."

She searched his eyes imploringly. "I'm sorry."

* * *

Now that she was so close to him she could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. She'd never seen Bruce cry before. She'd never seen him look so vacant, so far away, not even when his parents had died. Not even when she'd left him on the curb after the trial. Never.

He reminded her of an animal now. There was something primitive about the openness of his expression, as if he could hide nothing after she herself had hidden for so long. His eyes seemed sunken and wandering, like a sick dog's. They were bruised around the edges. His cheekbones seemed sharper, almost feral. Her heart fluttered. She hated to think that she'd done this to him. That she'd been too self-involved to tell him that she was alive, that she was okay.

She'd comforted herself by saying that Bruce was a big boy. Bruce would shake it off. He wouldn't blame himself because he was rational and clear-headed, and had his priorities straight, the first of which was Gotham City and its citizens.

Clearly she had been wrong. She'd known, of course, that she was lying to herself, but here was the evidence. Bruce was barely able to look at her. She hadn't anticipated their reunion would be so devastating—then again, she hadn't really anticipated a reunion at all.

Why was that? Had she planned to never say anything to Bruce as long as she still lived? She felt so deceitful, looking at his shaken form, his twisted expression. How cruel she had been, living this idle new life of hers while he suffered.

She waited until he had blinked a few times and regained some sort of control. She had never thought she'd have this much power over Bruce. In his whole life she'd never met anyone who did. And she was abusing it—it hit her in full force, the reality that she and Alfred were the only real family he had ever known, and she'd gone and thrown it in his face. The letter. Surely Alfred had given him that damned letter by now. She regretted it now, but what could she say to make it any different?

Once he seemed calmer she said quietly, "Can I explain?"

Bruce pursed his lips in thought. "I—I have to go soon. I mean that I have to . . ."

"Of course," she assured him, knowing he needed an out. "I understand. You're busy. Of course." She cleared her throat. "But just hear me out."

He looked away from her and she took the opportunity to speak.

"Ramirez tampered with the explosive that was supposed to blow up the building," she repeated. "I escaped before the entire building collapsed."

She waited for him to absorb this a second time, then continued gently. "I couldn't just tell everyone I was alive, not while the Joker was still on the loose. It would be suicide. There are still plenty of people who would like nothing more than to see me dead." Her throat was thick, recounting her actions. How numb she had been after the news of Harvey's death, how perfectly willing and accepting she had been of the situation. Fisher Jameson was a pushover. Rachel Dawes was not. With every word she felt like she was regaining a tiny part of herself, however miniscule, however desperate.

"So Ramirez set me up an identity. She'd had it ready for awhile. She'd been in league with them." She paused. "In the end she had to decide whether to save Harvey or save me . . . she made the choice." Her eyes burned, but she smiled a little. "And you saved Harvey."

"I was coming after _you_," he said fervently, his eyebrows creasing into a dark frown. "It was supposed to be _you _in that building, damn it, not Harvey."

The words pierced her like an arrow had flown straight through her chest. "What?" she breathed.

He laughed darkly. "The Joker made me choose, too. You or Harvey." He looked up at her bitterly, his nostrils flaring. "You didn't honestly think I'd choose anyone over you, did you?"

"I thought . . . I thought you were being practical. Doing what was best for Gotham. I respect that."

"Jesus Christ, Rachel. I would trade this whole city for you."

"Don't say that," she scolded.

"It's true."

She felt his shoulders tense, her arm still slung over him. She believed him. Instantly she felt like a fool. Of course Bruce would choose her. She knew that, didn't she?

Then why had she worked so hard to convince herself otherwise?

"So?" Bruce prompted her. For the first time in a while he moved, his arms gesturing out at the rundown school.

"So," Rachel continued, "I became Fisher Jameson. Elementary school teacher. PTA coordinator. Picnic thrower." It all seemed so trivial. This had all been some contrived little vacation from herself. How convenient. "And I've been here ever since."

Then she took a step away from him, facing him. He was going to have questions, but it was high time she stood up and answered them. She was accountable for his grief. She owed him this much.

His next words surprised her. "Does Gordon know?"

Rachel frowned. "Commissioner Gordon?" she clarified. Bruce gave her a sharp nod. "No. No, he didn't. Why?"

Bruce didn't answer. "How long were you going to keep this up? How many people even know you're alive?"

She swallowed thickly. "Ramirez. And my boss at the D.A. He's . . . holding my position open for me," she admitted sheepishly.

"Your _boss_ knows you're alive," he hissed, "but you never thought to tell _me_?" His voice was laced with pain, his expression a mixture of horror, remorse, and fury.

"I didn't think that—"

"No!" Bruce spat, absolutely livid. "No, you clearly didn't think, did you? Didn't think that I've spent this entire year thinking you've been _dead_, didn't think that maybe I was just trustworthy enough to let in on this stupid secret life of yours, didn't think that I . . . that I would . . ." He was starting to wind down, just gaping at her in shock. "You . . . how could you do this to me?"

Tears started slipping uncontrollably down her cheeks. "Bruce, Bruce, I didn't meant to hurt you, I really didn't," she pleaded, but she knew it was pointless. If she hadn't meant to hurt him then she would have said something. He was right. Bruce was always right, even if she hated to admit it.

"Of course you meant to hurt me." A shadow had crossed over his face. "At least that would explain why you . . . why you let me think I'd killed you."

"No," she gasped, "no, _never._ It was my fault. It was Harvey's. It was the _Joker's _fault for doing this to us in the first place—God, Bruce, blame anyone, but don't blame yourself. Please. It had nothing to do with you."

"He made _me _choose. Me. He did it to get to me, and me alone. Don't pretend you don't know that."

"That's a lie. There was no choice. He tried to kill us both, and if we hadn't gotten lucky then I would be dead now." She bit her tongue before she could say anything more about Harvey. The odd circumstances behind his death that no one would admit to. She had a feeling Bruce knew, though, because his eyes flickered for a mere millisecond, untraceable to anyone who hadn't known his face better than their own.

"Lucky?" Bruce repeated.

"Not lucky," she corrected herself, stammering. "Just . . . I'm really, really sorry, Bruce. I should have told you."

"Yeah. You should have."

She flinched.

"You'd better get back inside," he finally said.

"Wh-what?"

"They'll be looking for you."

She stepped away from him. "I'm not . . . I mean, I'm not, I don't have to. Go back inside, I mean. We should talk. We should sort this out."

"No, it's very clear to me." He suddenly sounded empty and drained. As if the conversation were more than he could bear. "You wanted a new life. A fresh start. And now you finally had your chance."

She was so shocked by this that she had nothing to say. Maybe he was right. This had been her game, her chance to be whoever she wanted to be without feeling judged. But now the cost seemed much too high for all of her ease in this act she'd been playing at.

"Are you happy?"

She didn't answer at first. "Are we ever?"

He nodded. "I loved you, Rachel. You were everything to me." He looked up at her and held her gaze for the first time since they'd been inside the gym. "I don't understand why you never felt the same way."

She shook her head. It wasn't like that. She did love him, she did, but that infernal letter—that rash, compulsively-written letter declaring her love for Harvey—if it weren't for that, she could say it. _I love you. I love you, please, you have to understand—_

"I love you!" she screamed.

He was gone. He'd been gone for awhile, and she'd still stood here as if she could stop time, freeze him in front of her, never let him go.

She was sobbing now. "I love you," she whispered. He hadn't heard. She could only hope that he knew.


	4. Three

Bruce wasn't thinking straight.

In all honesty, when was he ever? The night air was rushing around him, buildings rushing past in so many blurs. He was cutting through the wind like a knife, letting the roar of his speed deafen him. His thoughts were just as erratic and clipped as his vision. Between the cuts and breaks of jumping from rooftop to rooftop images of Rachel flashed through his head, sudden and unwelcome. It was too distracting. He couldn't focus.

Rachel. Rachel Dawes was alive. Speaking to him, standing there with her wide, sympathetic eyes, her gentle touch. As if she knew him at all.

She couldn't know him now. She couldn't understand what he'd become in this past year, because even Bruce didn't understand. It wasn't a simple shift from Bruce Wayne to Batman—it was something deeper, something that rattled his core so intensely that he doubted he could ever be the same. The ultimate identity crisis. He was lost within his two personas. He'd muddled himself so completely that he'd taken on a third identity, the man he was when his mind became a blank chalkboard of nothingness, when he was so utterly and completely alone in his thoughts and his conscience that he wanted nothing more than to tear himself to bits. Do something crazy, something to make his blood pump so hard through his head that he would have no chance at remembering everything he'd done and seen.

Something like dressing up as a bat and masquerading through the streets of the most crime-ridden city in the world.

He couldn't face her now. How could he possibly face her when he'd changed so much? He knew she was going to leave Harvey for him. But she was expecting the Bruce Wayne from a year ago, and that was a Bruce Wayne who no longer existed. That was a Bruce Wayne who had hope of someday settling down and having that white-picket-fence life that he'd sworn he'd never want.

He blinked furiously. No. He would not think of this. Tonight he owed his full attention to Gotham. Without Harvey around to prosecute someone had to repair all the damage to these streets.

It was easy to forget all the stress of the day when he was flying like this. Patrolling, he liked to call it, but in actuality he felt the slightest thrill in the moments between his scuffles, when he silently skulked and slipped through Gotham as silent as a ghost. When he was free and untied like this it seemed that the past was only a faint memory of a distasteful television show. It wasn't his life, it was somebody else's. Bruce Wayne. The Prince of Gotham. But not him.

His thoughts were interrupted by a struggle below him. He turned his sharp gaze toward the men and instantly assessed the situation. Probably a drug deal gone wrong—he saw thugs circling around a pathetic form like sharks, steadily boxing in what appeared to be a skinny twerp in his early twenties.

Annoying action was better than no action. At least he'd have something to distract himself with. He swooped down and instantly incapacitated three of the men with what might have been a single blow; he almost smirked to himself, but Bruce was never one to dwell on his tiny successes. Instead he whipped around and nailed two more of them, then with a finesse and grace he had mastered so flawlessly he sent the last three sprawling to the ground.

They were starting to get back up again. He hadn't aimed to knock them out, but he had aimed to scare the shit out of them. Apparently these thugs were not particularly impressed; in another minute or two he had knocked the four troublesome ones unconscious and left the cowards where they sat or lay shaking in the alleyway.

He turned to the squirrely-looking college student he'd just saved, just to see if he was alright. He didn't expect any acknowledgment. He had planned to give the boy a quick glance, a stern look, maybe a warning. Then dart off before he had to listen to any sort of response.

Instead he felt the cold nuzzle of a gun against his chest. Just as the unholy noise of the bullet rang through the night, Lucius's warning resonated in his mind: _Only a straight shot . . . _

It went off three times. Three times, tearing through the Kevlar and into his body. For a moment he remained standing, staring at the pimply punk in shock. _Who are you? Why would you do this to me? _Blood was leaking out of his mouth. In horror he stared down at his front, at the redness seeping through his fingers.

"Why," he managed to gasp out.

The boy's face contorted disgustingly. "It's because of you my father's in a fucking asylum. You ruined my life."

Bruce barely even registered that he'd hit the cement until he'd noticed how his view of the street had drastically been altered. He was laying halfway into the mouth of the alley, barely visible from the street. He closed his eyes and heard the moronic kid running away and thanked whatever uncompromising god that at least his odds of being found were pretty much nil. At least he had a chance of getting out of here unscathed—which would mean getting out of here without his identity being revealed.

His head felt so airy and light all of a sudden. He blinked, his vision blurring, his entire body frozen. A vague thought floated through his head: _Alfred . . . _

He thought he said it aloud. He thought he'd muttered it into his cowl, tipped off the butler that something was wrong, that he was a fool and he was paying the price for it now.

It was all in his head. There was no cry for help. Instead his form slackened against the brick wall of the alley, his hand releasing the bat-a-rang he'd been clutching, his eyes slipping closed.

_Someone will come. Alfred will come. I just have to get up and get out of . . . _

* * *

Wayne Manor. God, she never thought she'd be here again.

When she'd woken up this morning—yesterday morning—she would never have believed that at four o'clock in the morning the next day she would be standing in front of this massive building, walking up its imposing steps. She noticed that the garden was overgrown and spilling over itself. If she closed her eyes and breathed in its scent then she could pretend that she was back here as a child, darting through the greenhouse and slurping honeysuckle from the bushes, carefree and compact. The whole world had been so small then. So simple.

But then she opened her eyes again and saw that untended garden growing wildly and out of control and she found herself again. Rachel Dawes who wore heels and had a purpose in life. Not Rachel who stomped around in the dirt with light-up sneakers and thought nothing of wrestling Bruce for the last cookie Alfred had set out on the ledge.

It was the rose bush that upset her the most. It had been her favorite, and now she could barely recognize it. Some impulse made her wish she had a pair of garden scissors—she wanted to clip it back into place, mow it down. Make it the same. But she knew it wouldn't be so easy. She and Bruce would still be at odds, her life would still be a haphazard jumble of the stranger that was Fisher Jameson and the loveless lawyer that was Rachel.

A thought gripped her so suddenly that she stopped mid-step. She'd been so constantly burdened by this double identity of hers, wallowing in the difficulty of it all, and not once in all the time Bruce had been back in her life had she thought of how hard it must be for _him._ Every night, taking on the guise of the Batman, a symbol both loathed and revered. Fighting for a city who wanted nothing more than to see him incarcerated, only to wake up in the morning and be Bruce Wayne, who was considered a selfish, slapdash playboy. Either way Gotham scoffed at him.

Bruce was so far across the dividing line of identity that she doubted even he knew who he really was. Rachel, for all her hiding under the name of Fisher, had never really ceased being herself. She laughed the same way. She cared about people the same way. Her only difference was that she now exercised her different qualities into different outlets, at the school instead of the D.A.'s Office, with watching little league games instead of attending expensive benefits.

Bruce, on the other hand, was so completely changed as both man and . . . _bat . . . _that there was no distinguishing the slightest similarity between his two personas. Except that no matter who he was, it seemed that Alfred aside, he was very much alone.

Her heart panged for him and she took another resolute step forward. This was where she needed to be. Wayne Manor. Even if it had been rebuilt and newly-made it was still her second home, her one safety net in this unpredictable, crazy city.

And Bruce needed her.

It had taken a long night of doubts and deliberation before she'd finally headed toward the Manor. When she'd talked to Bruce he'd seemed so distant, so apart. But she realized that she had to make some allowances for him. She'd shocked him. Even the impenetrable Bruce Wayne must have the same human reactions to people coming from the dead. He'd spent the last year thinking she was gone forever—she would be altogether too demanding if she expected that he could just fit her back into his life.

She didn't want him to think, though, that she intended to just pop into his life like this and then ignore him. The distance between them had been so pronounced, even the in years before her alleged death, and she was through with it. Bruce was her best friend. A year was too long to go without seeing him, and she could prove to him just how much she regretted it, how much she wanted to remain a part of his life.

So here she was. At the manor. Not quite sure what she was doing, but then again she wasn't really sure of anything these past months.

She made it past the imposing gates; she'd known the security access code was Alfred's mother's birthday since she was five. Tentatively she stepped up to the front door and knocked on the door.

It only occurred to her then that Alfred was not nearly as young and spry as he used to be. Perhaps he would take the shock of her unexpected revival much harder than Bruce. She fidgeted, taking a step back away from the Victorian doors. This was a bad idea. She should have called Bruce first, but what if he hadn't answered? She didn't want to take that sort of a chance, that he might screen her calls and ignore them. Or worst, the chance that she'd call and distract him in a moment of crisis. God only knew what he was doing out at night.

The door creaked open. It was too late to turn around now. She took a shaky breath, trying to think of some explanation. Maybe he wouldn't recognize her—there was that. She was blonde, after all. But then what would her excuse be? She could always pass herself off as one of Bruce's infamous would-be bed buddies, but then she couldn't possibly explain how she'd made it past the security system in one piece. Oh, god.

And if he did recognize her . . .

Alfred. His expression was completely blank for a fleeting few moments. She could tell he'd been sleeping. He was alert as ever, but there was the faint crease of a pillowcase etched on his cheek. In any other circumstance she might have grinned at him, but now she felt so suddenly scrutinized that she almost shrank back.

Then he frowned, calculating as ever. She breathed a sigh of relief. Alfred was the same as ever—either out of fear for Bruce or extreme endurance, he'd managed to grow older but just as sharp.

"Miss Dawes?" he whispered. As if someone could hear them on the expanse of the mansion grounds, when they both knew very well that they were probably the only people within a mile radius of the doorstep.

Her eyes welled with tears, the regret hitting her in full force once more. She thought of Alfred as a second father. They'd exchanged letters since she'd left for college, even after Bruce had disappeared for so many years. How could she do this to him, too? The poor man had spent seven years already thinking Bruce was dead, after the deaths of his parents. He'd already suffered unimaginable grief. Now Rachel had caused him pain, too.

She was more than a little surprised when the ghost of a smirk snuck onto the corners of the butler's lips. "It seems that everyone is rising from the dead as of late."

"Alfred." Her voice was choked. He held his arms open to her before she'd even stepped forward, and she hugged him fiercely. "I'm so sorry. I . . . I never meant to . . ."

He patted her back, comforting her. She felt guilty for coming here. Taking more from them both. Who was she to be comforted, after what she'd done to them?

She sobbed quietly, swiping her sleeve across her eyes to get rid of the tears. Pulling away from him, she looked up at the old man's creasing eyes and blubbered, "I shouldn't have come here so late, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I wasn't . . . I—"

"Miss Dawes, I certainly do not mind in the least." Alfred was smiling at her now, his eyes a bit teary as well. "I'm overjoyed to see you well."

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," she said sincerely. "I've missed you so much."

Alfred's features seemed to darken for a moment. Not on her account, she was sure. But on Bruce's. "Does Master Wayne . . . ?"

Rachel willed her face not to crumple again, but she feared her efforts were futile. She nodded, letting Alfred lead her into one of the many sitting rooms. She remembered this one. She and Bruce had punched a hole in the wall behind the painting of the fairy woman at the lake . . . oh, but that house had burned down, there was no hole now, was there?

"He knows." She shuddered. "I didn't mean for him to find out . . . quite yet. Quite like he did."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at her. "He seemed distraught earlier but would not speak of it," he said, prompting her to explain what had happened. Alfred was too polite to ask too many questions, but she could see in his anxious eyes what it was he wanted to know. Where she had been all this time. Why she hadn't said anything. What she had said to Bruce.

"Bruce isn't home," she deduced.

Alfred nodded, checking the clock. "It may be awhile."

She bit her lip. "It's a long story."

The old butler sighed, still smiling his grandfatherly smile. "I'll make us some tea."


	5. Four

Gordon didn't make a habit of taking coffee breaks, but it would figure that the instant he would finally break down and opt to take one he would be radioed about a disturbance down the street. He sighed, setting down the scorching hot mug and standing up gingerly. These late nights were starting to rub off on him wrong. His wife . . . well, she was not at all particularly pleased at the extra responsibilities his job as Commissioner had brought on, and it seemed the friction between them only grew more intense with all the time he had to spend away.

"Could I get this to go?" he asked.

The waitress glared up at him from her notepad.

He looked down at his feet so he could roll his eyes. "I guess not," he muttered, leaving the hot coffee where it sat.

It was a well-known fact in most of the squads Gordon led that he was not a big fan of the radios. Moments after the initial message was sent his cell rang. "What kind of disturbance?" he asked edgily, knowing it was Carter on the other line.

"Um." The rookie stammered a moment, then recollected himself. "Someone called 911 a couple minutes ago reporting shots in the neighborhood, somewhere near sixty-third and Chrome. That—that was it."

"Alright, I'll check it out."

"Sh-should I call in any—"

"No, I can handle it on my own. I'll radio in if I need back-up." If there had been shots as long as minutes ago, chances were any potential threats had either escaped or been apprehended by the Batman by now. There was probably nothing safer than the scene of a crime in Gotham. This city's criminals were smart enough to get gone and stay gone, if they had the chance.

He sauntered quietly through the early morning. It was uncomfortably humid considering it was nearing four in the morning; he felt himself sweating through the Kevlar vest he now sported. An anonymous donation had been made earlier that year, outfitting every member of the force with their own. At least there was good in someone in Gotham, anonymous or not.

Gordon continued surveying the area, trying to look inconspicuous. He didn't want anyone in the area thinking something had gone wrong. In his previous experience with the citizens of Gotham, situations tended to worsen exponentially when people were aware of potential dangers. When he reached the intersection of sixty-third and Chrome his hand rested unconsciously on his gun holster. The night air was still and heavy around him, and he sensed something unnerving in the silence. Not enough of a feeling that he was fearful, but certainly enough that he reminded himself to be cautious when he stepped forward.

It seemed that there was nothing amiss in the intersection itself, but of course nothing would happen out in the open. For a moment he deliberated whether he should start scouring sixty-third or Chrome first, and he decided on the former, as the street was narrower and seemed more prone to trouble.

The first alleyway was clean. The entire street was, it seemed. Thanks to Batman the streets were unusually safe at night now. What a shame that the mayor still wanted him arrested on the spot, if anyone was able. Which, of course, Gordon had made impossible by however subtly hinting his disapproval of the mayor's orders to his units.

It was the fourth alley that he thought he heard a shallow breath. It was so quiet and sudden that he thought he might have imagined it, anxious of hearing bumps in the night. He found his flashlight and shined it into the filth.

"Oh, God." Immediately he shut the light off in favor of a dimmer setting. He didn't want to attract any attention.

Batman himself lay limp and deadly still against the brick wall. Gordon took a deep breath, trying to analyze the situation. There was blood trickling from the man's mouth. That could only mean internal bleeding of some sort. He took another step forward, squinting to try and assess what damage had been done without touching him. He didn't think the man would appreciate being moved, especially since he seemed so distrusting of others.

What he surmised was that there were multiple bullet wounds to his chest and stomach. He hissed in a breath of remorse. This was how Gotham treated its only true hero? Leaving him to die on the streets?

His mind was reeling, but this was no time to be distracted by the petty details of the crime itself. He needed to think clearly, because now a man's life hung in the balance. This needed to be handed delicately, if it could be handled at all. There were too many factors to consider—first off, Batman was a wanted man. If he chose to admit him into a hospital, Gotham would be finished. All hell would break loose without a Batman to defend them. Not only that, but Batman was a symbol, a man who chose to keep his identity so tight-lipped that Gordon sometimes had had doubts of him being an actual man. But he had to be, in "real life," whatever that was. It would be wrong to fork him over to emergency personnel because he had no doubt that the first thing they would rip off was the mask.

But if he didn't act fast, get any help of some sort, Batman would die.

Gordon pressed himself. Who could he trust? No one, really, except his own family, who would be of no help. He couldn't think of a doctor in this city who could keep this sort of secret safe. And Gordon himself certainly wasn't trained for anything more than CPR, which clearly wasn't going to magic any bullet wounds away.

Slowly he kneeled down to the height of the masked vigilante and listened intently. Yes, he was still breathing, however strained. Gordon raised a tentative hand and placed it on the man's shoulder, gently nudging him.

Immediately his eyes flared open. Disoriented, he tried to scramble back up to his feet, frowning at Gordon—within a second he sank back down, his face contorted in agony.

"Don't move," Gordon warned him, feeling useless. "It's only me."

A nod of understanding. Batman said nothing, set on trying to regulate his gasping breaths.

"Where can I take you? Is there anyone you can trust?" Gordon asked, trying to keep his voice calm and even.

Batman closed his eyes in thought. Gordon was afraid he might be slipping back into unconsciousness and kept a firm hand on the man's shoulders, keeping sure he stayed awake.

"Alfred Pennyworth," the wounded man rasped.

Gordon blinked uncomprehendingly.

"Wayne Manor."

The man must have been delusional. "That's too far," Gordon tried to reason. "You'd never make it in time."

To Gordon's alarm Batman seemed to sink even further against the wall, his eyes closing again, his chest deflating. "Stay with me," Gordon demanded, shaking him again. He scrambled for his police radio but he hadn't the faintest clue what he was going to do with it. There was no one to call. What a shame, that even as Commissioner he couldn't truly trust anyone in the force. Not after what Ramirez had done.

"Listen." Gordon swallowed. "If I don't get you to a hospital, you're going to die. What do you want me to do?"

When the Batman didn't answer at first Gordon thought he might have lost him again. But his lips parted again and he croaked bluntly, "Take off my mask."

"What?"

"There's no time." Batman placed a shaking hand against the mask that had thus far concealed him from a universe of prying eyes.

"I can't . . ." Gordon shook his head. It would be wrong. Nobody could take off Batman's mask because that would make Batman . . . a person.

Batman couldn't do it alone. His hands were shaking too hard. Gordon resigned himself, knowing that if he didn't act fast he would regret it.

"Tell them . . ." Batman paused to gulp in another gasp of air. The mask slid off easily, like pulling the wrapper off of a candy bar. The Batman was smirking through his rasps. "Tell them Bruce Wayne thought it would be funny . . . to dress up and play _Batman _for the night."

Staring into the face of Gotham's own prince, Gordon sat speechless, but only for a moment. Without missing another beat he dialed 911. "Commissioner Gordon," he said faintly into the phone. "Yes, there's been a shooting near sixty-third and Chrome . . ."

* * *

An hour and a half later and Rachel had spilled all her guts out to poor, patient Alfred. She was on her third cup of tea, but had a sneaking suspicion it might be decaf, because it certainly hadn't helped at all. She was about ready to nod off, but Alfred knew better than to offer her a room right now. The both of them were staring at the clock, waiting.

"Isn't he usually back by now?" Rachel fidgeted.

Alfred sighed wearily. "He comes home later and later. Sometimes he doesn't arrive until six-thirty."

She twisted a strand of hair in her fingers—a blonde one. That was the first thing on her list: dye her hair brunette again. Then start dressing for her D.A. job again, and not a frumpy teacher. And get rid of these stupid contacts . . .

Rachel paused a moment. When had she decided she wasn't going to be Fisher anymore? She knew that the decision was entirely hers, whether or not she wanted to remain this alternate identity. If she badgered Ramirez enough, the woman would undoubtedly find some way to make it permanent, out of guilt for what happened last year. It was certainly a concept she'd entertained, but a part of her had known she'd always return to Rachel Dawes's life.

She just hadn't known when. Thinking back, though, over the events of the past day, she knew when the decision had been made. The instant her gaze had met Bruce in the school. That was the second she had ceased being Fisher, when she had so thoughtlessly fled the building, ignoring all responsibilities with parents or students or staff.

"Bruce has . . . changed," she said noncommittally, hoping Alfred would provide some explanation.

"How could he not?" Alfred shook his head. "He took the news of your death very hard, Miss Dawes."

Not for the first time that night, she felt the sting of new tears prickling her eyes. "I feel so stupid."

"You did what you had to do," Alfred said understandingly.

"No, no I didn't." She shuddered again, holding back the new stream of tears, successfully regaining control. About an hour ago Alfred had thought to place a tissue box beside her, but she was afraid she might run out if she continued this any longer. "I could have come out of hiding _months_ ago, Alfred. But I . . ."

He didn't pressure her to continue, but she felt she must. Alfred was the only one who understood. The letter—the unsealed letter she'd handed to him that night, before all the chaos had mounted and she and Bruce had both lost someone dear to them. "I was a coward. I was afraid to face Bruce, after I left that letter. I just didn't see how anything could ever be the same."

For a long while Alfred only stared into the fire in the hearth. The light danced off of him, the shadows accentuating the little wrinkles on his forehead and his eyes. Worry lines, laugh lines. Alfred had seen more than Rachel could imagine, yet he'd always humored her little whims and patiently endured all of Bruce's crazy antics. He was wiser than anyone she knew.

His next words shouldn't have surprised her so much.

"I never gave him the letter."

"What?"

He wasn't looking at her, his gaze still fixed on the fire. His eyes flinched with emotion.

"You . . . never gave him . . . the letter."

"No, Miss Dawes, I did not."

"How did you . . . ?"

"The timing wasn't right." Alfred cleared his throat. "Of course neither of us knew that you were still alive. But Bruce . . . he was so distraught over your death as it was. I did not want to worsen the blow, if you will."

She thought she might kiss him. All at once there she found new inspiration, new hope that maybe her chances weren't absolutely dashed. If he hadn't read the letter then he'd never known her true decision. Maybe all this time he had gone on believing 

that Rachel had chosen him over Harvey. She'd thought he'd been bitter and angry with her for that letter, so much that they could never share anything, but if Alfred had kept her secret safe then maybe this didn't have to be as hard as she imagined it would be.

Another thought occurred to her. "Where did you put it?"

"I burned it. Trust me, he never saw." Alfred raised his eyebrows pensively. "He was a bit too preoccupied with the rest of Gotham directly after the explosions."

Alfred knew everything, then. Bruce never kept him in the dark. Rachel was sure that of all the people in his life, he trusted the old butler more than anyone. So Alfred had the answers to the burning question—could she ask it? Would Alfred judge her for wanting to know what truly happened?

"The newspapers said that Harvey Dent fell off a building in a struggle with Batman."

"Is that what the papers said?" Alfred said innocuously.

Rachel nodded. "That's not what happened." She directed her gaze at him curiously.

"Well," Alfred said gruffly. "Not quite."

She twiddled with her hands, waiting a moment to see if he'd say anything more. She wondered what could possibly be worth keeping from her. Surely Alfred didn't think she was too squeamish to hear what had really happened. For awhile she'd suspected there'd been another encounter with the Joker or some fluke on someone's else's part, but whatever it was she was certainly old and mature enough to handle it.

"So. What really happened?"

Alfred shook his head, looking uncomfortable with the topic. "I can't say I'm quite certain of the details myself. But I do believe, to some degree, that the papers were correct in their assumption."

Rachel flew to her feet. "Bruce wouldn't—he's not that sort of—throwing Harvey off a _building—_"

"Miss Dawes," Alfred interrupted, his voice more clipped than usual. "I believe you know better than to jump to such a conclusion. You and Master Wayne have been close since you were children."

A thick coat of shame seemed to suffocate her for a moment. "Yes," she said softly. She knew Bruce better than that. He may have acted petty and jealous around Harvey, but he would never take it that far.

She sat back down, sheepish and chagrined. "I didn't mean . . ." Well, yes she had. That didn't she didn't regret it the instant Alfred had brought her to her senses.

"Master Wayne was rather guarded about what happened. Perhaps if you ask him he could better explain," Alfred said, changing his tone mercifully.

Rachel gave him a wry smile. "So basically you're not sure whether or not Bruce wants me to know?"

Alfred smiled back. "Precisely. Sharp as ever, Miss Dawes."

The phone rang. Alfred frowned, muttering something to himself and rising from the chair to answer.

"Yes," Rachel heard him say from the next room. She nestled further into the armchair, feeling more exhausted than ever. More than anything she wanted to sink into the soft throw pillow and fall asleep. But she had to wait for Bruce. She had to let him know that she was not giving up on him.

"Speaking."

She shouldn't be eavesdropping, but Alfred was making no move to lower his voice so she figured he wouldn't mind. What else was there to do?

"Excuse me?" Alfred sounded taken aback. "Bruce Wayne. Yes, yes. I . . . No, I was unaware of these antics of his, but remain assured that I will send someone along to collect him."

He paused. Rachel stiffened, poised to hear more.

"It's that serious?" Alfred's voice was softer now. He didn't want her to hear, which of course meant she strained even more to hear anyway. A moment later he said gravely, "I understand. Gotham Central Hospital."

"Alfred," Rachel started, feeling her heart leap into her throat. Her words came out in an unintelligable rush. "Alfred what happened."

He wasn't off the phone yet. "Thank you . . . for . . . keeping this discrete, Commissioner. I'll be right there."

"Alfred?" Rachel demanded wildly, at her feet again. "Alfred, what's going on? Where's Bruce?"

The man's face was significantly paler when he reentered the room, his face drawn sharply. "It seems there's been an accident." He was already headed toward the foyer, grabbing his coat.

Rachel blanched, at once indignant and afraid. "What do you mean?"

He was leaving.

"_Alfred!_" Rachel cried, following him out.

"Stay here." Alfred's eyes looked misty. His gaze shifted away from her. "Everything's going to be alright. Just stay here."

The door slammed. For a moment she only stood there, too taken aback by the scene to react. Something . . . an accident? There's been an _accident_? But Batman didn't make mistakes. Bruce freaking Wayne didn't make mistakes!

Every instinct screamed at her to move, but she was incapable. Of course she'd imagined something might happen to Bruce one day. But she hadn't actually considered it—she'd never pictured a life without Bruce, not since he'd returned from that seven-year-stint of his. Gotham seemed too empty a place to live without him there. She'd never be able to adjust to losing him the way she had back then, not now that she was so wrapped up in him, not now that Gotham depended on him for everything.

Alfred couldn't just do this to her. Block her out, when she had every right to know what was happening.

Rachel stood up and headed for the door. "Gotham Memorial," she muttered decisively. Bruce wasn't going to be alone anymore. Not if she could help it.


	6. Five

"Bruce Wayne," Gordon deadpanned. The adrenaline had since worn off in the past minute or two and was replaced by disbelief and awe. "Bruce Wayne . . . is Batman."

The man had lost consciousness again. Gordon kept his hand rested on the other man's shoulder, knowing he was absolutely useless here. His head was reeling. The emergency response vehicles would pull up any moment now and all he'd be able to mutter was, _Bruce Wayne? No. No way. Anyone but Bruce Wayne. _

Very rarely had Gordon ever felt unsuited for his job. But at this moment he was so unsure and wavering that he thought he must be made of Jell-O. Would anyone even believe this stunt? Bruce Wayne, Gotham's playboy, Gotham's ultimate let-down. Didn't live up to his altruistic parents, but at least he was charming, right? The public spent most of their time following the eligible young bachelor around, secretly taking pleasure in all of his drunken follies and escapades with scantily clad women. For God's sake, Bruce Wayne was the anti-Batman. Nobody was going to believe this nonsense.

Maybe this wasn't the real Batman. There was always that concept to entertain—maybe he wasn't just being ironic with the whole, _Tell them Bruce Wayne dressed up like a bat_ or whatever the crap was that Wayne was feeding him. Maybe Bruce Wayne really was stupid enough to go out and play Batman for kicks.

But God, Gordon doubted it. As hard as it was to wrap around his brain, he'd been around Batman enough times to peg the legitimate vigilante against all of his posers.

He tried to focus. _Focus._ His fingers were sticky, red with the other man's blood. Whether or not Bruce Wayne was the real Batman, he was dying. Gordon had to find some way to keep this under wraps. But between his millionaire and masquerading identities, Gordon feared that secrecy would be impossible. It was like trying to shield an elephant with nothing but a feather.

The last time he'd spoken to Bruce Wayne there had been two half-naked Italian supermodels on either side of him. He had seemed somewhat too tipsy for his own good, and was winking at the girls carrying trays of expensive foods and champagne. In fact, he'd barely even acknowledged Gordon as he introduced himself. Gordon remembered feeling a bit miffed. They had met before, after all. Several times. Gordon had been the one officer who had kept tabs on little Bruce after his parents had died . . .

But of course Bruce wouldn't remember him. He was eight years old at the time. And honestly, it was a time that anyone would rather forget.

Now Gordon realized that Bruce hadn't forgotten at all. If it was true—if this man, lying here and barely rasping out breaths, was the same man who had practically ignored him only months ago—then Bruce had remembered for twenty long years and come back for his help. That night Batman had sought him out individually, before he was an infamous household name. Not because of anything in particular that Gordon had done. But because he must have remembered somewhere in his consciousness the one man who had comforted him that horrible night.

Lightning flashed, followed by a crashing, deafening roll of thunder. It started to rain. Gordon cursed under his breath and looked up at the sky desperately.

"What am I going to do?" he asked, feeling helpless.

He turned his eyes back to Bruce Wayne. Without his mask on he looked so . . . breakable. Expendable. Human. Gordon had seen plenty of men die in his line of work. He had seen just how fragile a human life was. But until now he had never thought of Batman as an actual person—he was an entity, untouchable, intangible. Irrationally Gordon thought of him as immortal. He should have known better, of course. Last year after the fiasco with the Joker, Batman had been so beaten that Gordon didn't hear from him for a full week and a half. Even Batman needed time to recover.

But he'd never actually seen Batman bleed before, let alone Bruce Wayne. In fact, Gordon had purposefully never even imagined Batman as having a face. He didn't want to imagine the pain and the agony contorted on the man's features when he'd lost Rachel Dawes, when Dent had shot him. The rawness in his usually husky voice was enough to rip at Gordon's heart. To imagine a face enduring such anguish would be too much for his conscience.

Gordon was torn out of his thoughts by the sounds of sirens in the distance. They were coming, and he still didn't have a clue what he was going to do about the whole ordeal. He looked at the unconscious Wayne again, hoping that he might supply some solution, but his eyes were still closed and unmoving.

He bit his lip. "If they find out who you are . . ." He shuddered, looking over his shoulder. The vehicles hadn't approached yet. He had time—time to do what, though? Hide Bruce Wayne in a dumpster until they left? Jam the mask back on the man and possibly cause him more injuries than the ones already inflicted on him?

What was he supposed to _do_? For the love of God—_what_?

A car pulled up to the curb. Numbly Gordon heard the sound of slamming, skidding brakes. But the sirens hadn't stopped.

He looked up and saw a face he recognized. An older gentleman with laugh lines and a kind demeanor—but none of his usual pleasantry was evident on his expression now. Lucius Fox, head of Wayne Enterprises in the flesh, was kneeling over Bruce Wayne beside Gordon.

As if the night could not have gotten anymore bizarre.

But then again, Gordon should have figured this out for himself by now. Who else would be supplying the Batman? Surely no man could accomplish the whole feat of creating and buying all those resources alone.

"Commissioner," Fox acknowledged him, barely looking up from Bruce. His face was ashen, stone-like in concentration. He flinched when he first saw the state of the injuries, but quickly began to assess the situation with an adeptness that rivaled Gordon's. "You called for the ambulances?"

"I couldn't think of any other solution. He's going to die if—"

"Help me lift him."

Without missing a beat Gordon grabbed the unconscious man's shoulders and helped Fox lug him toward what looked like an enormous Range Rover. "Where are we taking him?" Gordon asked, concerned.

"Gotham Memorial Hospital," said Fox resolutely.

Gordon scowled. "How is that any different from--?"

"I know someone there I can trust," Fox said pointedly.

"But how do you _know_?" Gordon burst out of frustration. He didn't mean to be difficult, but Fox seemed too calm and deliberate given the circumstances. They set Wayne down securely in the back and Gordon flew into the passenger's seat before Fox could object.

Fox raised an impatient eyebrow at him. "Believe me when I say I have Mr. Wayne's best interests in mind." He took the wheel, never minding to ask why Gordon was along for the ride. He must have figured that if Gordon hadn't tried to rat him out by now that he, too, had Wayne's best interests in mind. But Gordon doubted they could trust anyone in the city. What made this Lucius Fox so sure?

"How did you know to find him?"

For a long while Fox didn't answer him, occupied with maneuvering around the streets near a hundred miles an hour. Gordon had the feeling that this wasn't information he was all too willing to part with. He added, "It's alright if you can't say."

Fox nodded, but returned, "I set up the suit so that an alarm in my cell phone is triggered if the Kevlar in his suit is pierced." He sighed wearily. "I didn't tell him about it, of course. He thinks he's invincible."

Gordon swallowed. Well, then, so did everyone else.

"I had a feeling this would happen, though."

"You've planned this for awhile, then?" Gordon realized. "You knew where you would take him."

"If it was serious enough to risk compromising everyone, then yes, I knew where I was going to take him." He whipped the bulky car around another corner, and Gordon had to brace himself. "My sister's a surgeon down at Gotham Memorial."

"She doesn't know about . . . this?"

Fox shook his head.

"You think she'll be able to handle it?" Gordon was shaken enough as it was. He could barely manage to think straight, let alone perform a complicated surgery with someone's life constantly hanging in the balance. And he knew for a fact that he was of sound mind, or else he wouldn't have been given such a high-intensity job.

"I hope."

* * *

The pain became so excruciating that it numbed and dulled. Bruce couldn't figure out what exactly hurt, except that it seemed to have dissolved into him, absorbing itself. It was harder to breathe. Something was pressing on his chest, preventing it from rising and falling, but it was an ache now more than a persistent piercing.

The faint colors dimmed around him, blackness creeping at the edges of his eyes. The darkness swam around him. He struggled to stay conscious—he'd endured plenty worse than this, hadn't he? He thought back on those years with Raz Al Ghul and his often perilous training, but all that he could find was snippets and breaks of halfway-written memories. Nothing was certain or concrete enough to grab a hold on. He kept flying past illogical scenes, most of them unrelated, trying to fish his way to something that was relevant to what was happening to him.

There had been pain worse than this in his lifetime. Losing his parents. Losing Rachel. But that was the sort of pain that slowly took its told, ebbing at his conscience and his heart over the years. This pain was immediate and fierce. Nothing like any other pain he'd dealt with before.

He was so _stupid. _He bit his lip, trying to stay awake, furious with his own idiocy. Batman was supposed to know better than anyone to never let his guard down, and here he was letting some misguided punk shoot him down? Damn it, he'd taken on so much worse than this. Scarecrow, Penguin, The Joker, Raz himself—but it was some pinch-faced brat who got the edge on him after all he'd been through.

His hearing was starting to fog, as if someone had stuffed cotton balls in his ears. Everything felt so thick around him. In the midst of it all Gordon's panicked, urgent voice was the only sound that broke through the haze. He was calling an ambulance.

There was nothing to be done. His cowl was clearly doing no good, and even if Alfred had heard his calls, he'd be too late. Bruce often liked to think of himself as untouchable, but he was never under the illusion that he was invincible. He knew that at times Alfred and Rachel (_Rachel . . . _oh, _God_) had thought he was out of touch with reality, but Bruce knew his limits with more rational than most men. And this was a limit even he could not bear.

He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting metallic blood. Despite all his attempts he was succumbing . . . he wouldn't be able to take this much longer. Gordon's hand was firm on his shoulder, and for that he was thankful, however distantly. It gave him some direction at least. As long as he could feel that hand, he knew he was within some realm of the living.

Vaguely he wondered what it would feel like to die. It hadn't been the first time he'd considered this, of course. He'd have been a fool if he hadn't. He'd always wondered, ever since he was a little boy and watched his parents die. _Where did they go? What happened to them after they left?_ Questions he kept to himself. He knew better than to ask, because of course no one would have the answers. Even at eight years old he knew that much.

Their deaths had been so quick. So instantaneous. They were dead before Bruce could even process that the man had a gun. How slow, how incapable and helpless he had been as a child. Whereas now he would have easily wrestled or tricked a weapon out of a man's hands, he had only stood there and watched, mouth agape with horror and disbelief. Dead before they hit the ground . . .

But Bruce would not be that fortunate. Even if he lived, would it be worth one more second of this unendurable agony?

Yes. Rachel. Her face emerged from the madness cluttering his head, so clear and pristine that he thought she might be right in front of him. He'd do anything to just reach out and touch her cheek . . . to know for certain that she was real. Had he hallucinated the entire evening? Could Rachel Dawes have really come back from the dead, or was Bruce slowly letting his mind slip away?

It felt like he was drowning. It was too difficult to breathe, or even think about calming himself. Usually in these circumstances he could muster enough focus to shut himself down. Conserve his energy so that it wasn't wasted on gasping breaths and uncontrollable shaking. But he was too muddled, too distracted. Lost. Illogical.

Gordon's form swam in front of his eyes, blurring out of recognition. Bruce couldn't fight this. It was the end of him, and the end of Batman. He had lost the control he had so savored in these past few years and put himself in the hands of Gordon.

He trusted Gordon more than he trusted himself. He only hoped that Gordon would trust himself, too.

The hand was still on his shoulder, but he felt its weight fading away. Bruce wheezed, the pain suddenly sharper than ever before. _Rachel . . . God, this can't happen now, not with Rachel so close . . . _

If he hadn't been so stupid he might have had everything he'd ever wanted. For once, Bruce Wayne might have been happy. Free to be himself, free to pursue something he _actually desired. _

Now it was slipping through his fingers.

These were his last bitter thoughts before the pain finally dulled completely, and Bruce was swallowed whole by the darkness claiming him.

* * *

_Rachel cocked an eyebrow at him, barely noticeable over her chunky bangs. Not the first of a series of bad high-school haircuts, and by no means the last. But she was just as bossy and clever as always, even at fifteen. Bruce shrank under her gaze. _

"_Again, Bruce?" she asked playfully. There was an edge to her voice, though. She was mad. _

_Bruce shrugged. "Again." _

"_What for this time?" she sighed, sitting him down at her kitchen table. He couldn't go back to the Manor in this state or Alfred would worry and ask stupid questions about what happened. Besides, he'd gotten off well enough this time. The stuck-up brats had shoved him to the ground and split part of his forehead open, but at the first sight of blood they'd all bolted like the cowards they were. _

"_I gave someone a 'look,'" Bruce explained mildly. A drop of blood hit the table. _

"_Watch it," Rachel hissed, throwing a napkin at him. She fished through the cabinets and found the antiseptic. "My mom will freak if there's blood." _

_The bleeding was superficial, but even Bruce had to admit it looked pretty nasty. It hadn't stopped gushing in the mile long walk to Rachel's and was still showing no signs of stopping. As Rachel liked to say, if his skull weren't so thick then he wouldn't be getting off so lucky whenever "this happened." _

"_So let me get this straight." She dabbed the liquid on the tear in his forehead. _

"_Owwww," he moaned sarcastically, "that huuuurts." _

_Rachel smacked his arm. "Big baby. So let me get this straight," she continued. "You gave them a 'look,' and they all pounced you? Just like that?" _

_She was teasing him. As usual he took the bait. "Yup." After a brief pause he admitted, "Well. I may have accidentally gotten his crew detention that day. But I swear I didn't mean to." He smirked. "I just thoroughly enjoyed it." _

_Rachel knew better now than to ask for details. She rolled her eyes, giving him the classic you're-so-lucky-I-put-up-with-you glare. "You can't exactly hide this from Alfred." _

"_You're right. I'll tell him you did it." _

"_Keep that up and I'll do worse," she threatened, squirting more antiseptic than necessary. _

_He flinched. "Play fair," he laughed. _

_She finished cleaning and sat back to inspect her work. The bleeding had stopped, and it really didn't look all that bad. There was still a noticeable gash on his forehead, but not enough to attract too much attention. "There," she said contentedly. _

"_Thanks, Rach." He hopped to his feet, headed immediately for the pantry. Before he could so much as take three steps Rachel had a hand on his shoulder, halting him. She looked pensive. Concerned. _

"_What I don't understand . . ." She bit her lip. "Bruce, why don't you ever fight back?" _

_Bruce snorted. "You, miss holier-than-thou, miss goody-two-shoes honor roll student—" She swatted him again, but he continued—"you're telling _me_ to fight someone?" _

"_Well, not fight, perse. Just . . . I don't know. Defend yourself instead of just standing there." _

"_I thought peer counselors were supposed to promote nonviolent solutions." _

"_Bruce, you know just as well as I do that you're only provoking them more by not reacting. You really want this to stop?" She stared at him directly in the eye. "Then fight back." _

_The three words reverberated through his skull. The scene, the kitchen was slipping out from underneath him. "Rachel," he pleaded as she faded with the countertops and floors. "Rachel, Rachel, don't go." _

_She looked down at her shoes as if she hadn't heard him and he was still in the kitchen with her. She muttered self-consciously, "Just . . . fight back for once." _


	7. Six

Lucius Fox had known this would happen.

Not this specific circumstance, of course, but he'd been prepared for worse. Lucius Fox was more than a little assured of his own intelligence and ability to keep a cool head. It would take more than this to rattle him. A lot more.

There were more than a few details about the new suit he'd supplied for Bruce Wayne that Fox neglected to share with the young crime-fighting enthusiast. Last year he had outfitted it with a tracking signal. At any time of the day Fox had access to the suit's whereabouts—a practice that left him feeling a tad guilty at first, but had proved itself as useful as Fox had hoped. Not only that, but Lucius had installed a chip deep inside the Kevlar, so that the instant the Kevlar was pierced Fox's personal cell would blare a warning. Within seconds the suit had the technology to assess its own physical damage and give a practical estimate of the damage done to whoever was wearing it.

So Lucius had been more than ready for disaster, and he had been for months. It was all a matter of when it would strike. The instant his cell phone rang—the distinctive emergency ring, clipped and monotonous—Fox had snapped up like a livewire, scrambling to his feet as if the building were in flames.

He hadn't arrived as soon as he'd hoped. Whenever he went over this drill in his head he imagined that he would find Bruce alone and sweep him up out of the night before anyone had seen. But Gordon, of all people, had beaten him to it. Not only that, but he'd called the authorities. This was becoming harder to keep under wraps, but Fox knew he could still handle it.

Besides, he couldn't be angry with Gordon. The man was out of his league, trying to deal with this on his own. No matter how good his intentions were, Batman's identity would have inevitably been leaked and Gotham would have reduced itself to a state of complete and utter chaos.

Damage control, was what this was. He needed to stop anything further from getting out of hand.

Without turning his eyes on the road he asked the Commissioner, who had, inconveniently enough, decided to hitch a ride, Fox addressed him, "Is he still breathing?"

After a moment's hesitation the shell-shocked man answered, "Yes."

Lucius punched familiar numbers into the speaker phone by the dashboard and listened to its subdued ringing. A moment later a frazzled voice answered, "Lucius?"

"Carol. I have an emergency."

His sister sighed in aggravation. "What sort of _emergency_, Lucius? I'm a bit tied up at the hospital right now—"

"That's what I was hoping. I'm on my way there."

"What for?" she demanded. Unlike Lucius she was easy to anger, easy to upset. What Lucius had to take into account was that although she was sudden to leap to conclusions, she was just as capable of being calm and collected as he was. "Are you hurt? Where are you, anyway?"

"I'm fine. It's a . . . friend of mine who's been hurt."

"Well?" she asked, sounding ornery and impatient.

"A while back I discussed with you a special circumstance."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," she moaned. "Right _now_? This place is a zoo, Lucius!"

"I understand that you're busy. But you're the only one I can trust."

"Trust to do _what_? I don't even know what or who the hell this is. And and I really don't have time—"

"Carol, please." His voice had an edge to it that he rarely used with anyone, let alone his older sister. "This is a man's life."

After a moment she asked tersely, "What exactly am I dealing with? _Who_ exactly am I—" There was a significant pause. Realization dawning. Lucius bit the inside of his cheek, taking another tight turn. "_Are you telling me that you're bringing _him_ to _my_ hospital?_"

Lucius didn't reply for a moment. "You know I would never ask you to do this unless it were absolutely necessary." He took her silence as an assent. "You can't handle this alone. I need you to assemble anyone you can trust. Keeping his identity contained is of the highest priority."

"Higher than keeping him alive?"

"In this case, perhaps," Lucius said carefully, hoping he didn't sound callous.

"Well, what's happened to him?"

"Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach."

"Anything else you can tell me?"

"It was enough to blow through Kevlar," Lucius said, almost conversationally.

Carol's grimace was almost audible over the phone. "You're not giving me a lot to go on. Where am I even going to meet you?"

"Second entrance to the northern wing."

"How far—"

"Less than five minutes."

She hung up. Lucius whipped a cell phone out of his pocket, hit speed dial number four and handed the device to Gordon. Without looking over at the other man he said softly, "You're calling Alfred Pennyworth. If someone else picks up tell them you've dialed the incorrect number. If you get him on the line tell him that you and Lucius Fox are taking Bruce Wayne to Gotham Memorial Hospital and that he should come as soon as he's able."

"I—what . . ." Gordon fumbled for a moment but the phone was ringing, so he gave Lucius a skeptical sideglance and put the phone to his ear. "Alfred Pennyworth?"

* * *

The words were playing like a broken movie reel in Alfred's head. _Commissioner Gordon here, calling about Bruce Wayne—there's been an incident . . . _Alfred swallowed, keeping his eyes peeled on the road. _I'm not sure if you're aware, but he's been dressing up like the masked vigilante Batman. _A red light. Alfred muttered under his breath, agitatedly stopping the car. _No, I'm afraid you don't understand. He's been . . . well, he's been shot. _

Those were the words that chilled him to the bone. Those fateful, blatant, uncaring words—how hauntingly familiar they were.

Green light. Alfred hit the gas.

This meant that people _knew_ now. The secret of Batman was out. James Gordon could dance on the edges of the truth but he knew that Bruce Wayne was not a man who would "dress up" like Batman. Whatever it was Bruce was trying to accomplish was now being undermined in a matter of hours.

But that, of course, wasn't why Alfred was this upset. He just didn't want to think of . . . what had happened to Bruce. If he thought about it then he wouldn't be able to drive, wouldn't be able to think. Wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Years ago Thomas Wayne had entrusted Alfred with what was most dear to him in his whole world: his son. And Alfred had felt the magnitude of that promise. More than that, he'd devoted his entire _life_ to that promise. Without ever meaning to, Bruce had become the son that Alfred had never been fortunate enough to have himself. Alfred had cared for him, watched him grow up, become the man he was today. So it was, in a way, more than a promise he had fulfilled for the hero Thomas Wayne. It was the reason Alfred wasn't living alone in a dreary apartment in God-only-knew-where. It was the reason Alfred had spent his older days feeling like he had a purpose, instead of wandering aimlessly as he once had.

He'd broken the promise. All these years he'd spent looking after Bruce and now he'd failed.

Alfred tried to be hopeful. There was a chance that Bruce would make it through this, but Gordon had sounded so grave on the phone that he really wasn't certain anymore. The last time Gordon had called . . .

Well, it was about twenty years now, wasn't it? If Bruce was twenty-eight years old now . . . _God_. It felt like the call had come yesterday. No matter how many years passed it seemed that he couldn't distance himself from the anguish of that night—the night the city's heroes had been murdered, leaving Bruce an orphan and Alfred numb and uncomprehending.

There were monsters in Gotham. That much Alfred understood. He remembered realizing this as he took another frantic late night drive, not all too different from the one he was making now. Except at the end of that drive had been a terrified little boy. And Alfred didn't even want to consider where that boy was going to be at the end of this drive.

It had been storming then, too. As if the sky was so dark it would swallow them whole, and then suddenly the whole world would be struck with a brilliant light, shocking them all back into reality. All but Bruce. He'd seemed oblivious, as if walking through a dream. Alfred remembered leading him out of the police station toward the car, how he looked so pale and small. He remembered thinking that he had to be stoic and contain himself for Bruce, but that he'd been terrified seeing that little boy in the backseat and realizing that he was now solely in charge of his life.

There were no aunts and uncles, no grandparents, no distant relations. Alfred was glad, at least, that he didn't have to worry about shipping Bruce off to a stranger—whether or not Thomas had named him as guardian in his will, Alfred would always have cared about the boy.

That first year they had been so numb, but they'd eased into their new routine so thoughtlessly that it seemed for a long time that maybe the Waynes had never existed. Every morning Bruce left for school. Every free moment he spent engrossed so wholly in reading and lessons and sports that he barely paused a moment to speak. They were, in a way, like a family. They ate meals together and knew each other better than most fathers and sons would. Life was quiet, but at least it left the two of them alone after that, for the most part.

Something was ringing—Bruce's cell phone. That's right. He hadn't taken it with him when he'd gone sleuthing around, and Alfred had pocketed it just in case. Now he looked at the number and saw that Lucius was calling.

"Lucius," Alfred greeted somberly. He was three blocks away from the hospital now and grateful for someone to speak with.

"Alfred. I thought I might reach you here." It occurred to Alfred that he'd left his own cell phone at home.

"You've made it to the hospital?"

"He's on the fifth floor."

"How did you . . . ?"

"The fifth floor's the top floor—most of it's still torn up from the reconstruction, so no one else is up there. Bruce is in an operating room. It was all very discreet."

"How can it be?" Alfred asked darkly.

He could almost hear the faint twinkle in Lucius's words. "My sister's a surgeon."

Clearly Lucius had anticipated—and dreaded—this occasion every bit as much as Alfred had. "How is he?"

There was a pause. "It's too early to say."

Alfred parked the car, but he didn't move. He needed a moment to collect himself. Once he entered the too bright halls of the hospital, there'd be no turning back.

"But honestly, Alfred, I'm trying not to worry. It will take much more than this to take down Bruce Wayne."

And damn it all if Alfred didn't know that.

* * *

Rachel had no idea how the hell it was Alfred was pulling eighty miles an hour. In the rain. In _Gotham_. Before she could even so much as follow his headlights with her eyes, he'd screeched around the corner and completely torn out of view. Cursing under her breath she fumbled blindly in the dark entrance of Wayne manor, trying to find her keys.

Her limbs were all too shaky and wobbling. It seemed like they weren't attached to their proper place, dangling and disembodied. How was she supposed to _drive_ if she couldn't even get this _god damn zipper _open and find her keys?

Breathe. She had to remind herself to breathe. Freaking out was going to get her absolutely nowhere. Rachel was not the type to crack under pressure—

"_Fuck!_" she spat, finally succeeding in unwedging her zipper. She was shocked that she'd let herself erupt like that, but she was too frantic to care anymore. In fact, it felt good. Maybe she'd say it again. Maybe she'd _scream _it. Ha! That would just feel great.

For two milliseconds. Ugh. She peeled off her high-heeled shoes and bolted for her car, hoping that Alfred had not had the foresight to close the gates. Fortunately they were still wide open, and she clambered into the frontseat and jammed the keys into the ignition. Which way was the hospital from here? She should know this. With all the hysteria about the Joker blowing it to bits last year, surely every other common person in Gotham knew where to find the hospital. But it wasn't like she could just ask someone on the streets right now—it was, like, four in the morning, and anyone who was out at this hour was probably out of their head.

She took a right out of the Manor and hit a main road. For a moment she relaxed, knowing the next intersection was a mile away, so she wouldn't be pressed with any major decisions until then.

Funny how yesterday a major decision was whether or not she should remain hidden, and now she was torn between straight, a left, or a slight right.

She could remain calm about this. After all, Bruce was tougher than most—okay, admittedly tougher than anyone she knew. If anyone could survive something, it was him. So Rachel wasn't all that worried about whether or not Bruce would make it so much as she worried about what happened to him in the first place. Rachel had never been so angry at Alfred in her life. Had she ever been angry at the older man before now? But how _dare_ he just walk away like that and leave her with absolutely nothing to go on? Surely he knew her well enough by now to know that she was going to follow him, no matter what he said or did to prevent her from doing so.

It was raining. Of all the days, of all the instances, it had to be raining _now_? It felt like in the past twelve hours the universe had ganged up on her and was having a ball, watching her struggle and torture herself with all the secrets she kept and the moments she passed up and the words she'd meant to say. And now the ultimate—she would finally realize her mistake and find Bruce again, she finally had some glimmer of hope at returning to the life she once had, and then it would be taken away from her? Just like that?

If anything happened to Bruce, she decided she could never be Rachel Dawes again. There would be nothing left for her. Whereas Fisher Jameson might have a shred of normalcy in her life, Rachel would be lost and without an anchor.

The intersection. She went straight, still completely unsure of what she was doing. She scanned the road for signs leading to the hospital and found none.

The radio was on and she hadn't even given it a second thought until she had felt a chill at how merry and happy the tune was. Some old song with a chipper beat and sound, a woman singing. It sounded so light and carefree. She didn't have the heart to turn it off now, even though it was downright unnerving to hear along with the rain pounding incessantly on her windshield.

A sign—a giant "H" in white and blue. That meant hospital, didn't it? For all her practical knowledge Rachel honestly couldn't quite remember. But it had to be. It was pointing to the right, so Rachel swerved the car over.

What were they going to do? Who was "they," anyway? It all depended on who Bruce had gone to for help. Someone other than Alfred, which was what puzzled her the most . . . unless Bruce hadn't been able to call for help. And someone else had found him.

They could only pray that whoever it was had the heart to leave Bruce alone. He didn't deserve the hell Gotham would bring upon him. They would tear him apart until there was nothing left of him, and Bruce—stupid, stubborn, willful Bruce—would just sit there and take it all. She knew from experience that he would just _let_ them shred him.

The logistics of this seemed impossible. Taking Batman into a hospital full of citizens who all were very much aware of the price on his head. And even if by some chance "they," whoever they were, had managed to pull it off so that it was Bruce Wayne who had been hurt, there would be months of trying to explain why a billionaire would be traipsing around the filthy streets of Gotham at night.

_This is not my problem_, she thought to put herself at ease. Bruce knew full well the risks that came with being Batman. If he hadn't anticipated something happening to him then it was his own damn fault and his alone.

So why the hell did she feel so responsible? Why did she feel like she, too, was to blame?

She passed the hospital parking lot and pulled a U-turn in the street without even thinking about how illegal it was. Circling around the hospital, she found Alfred's distinctive car in a back corner and parked nearby it. For a moment she let herself feel the shallow, pointless relief of making it to the hospital—but how on earth was she supposed to get inside? She couldn't very well go in there and ask to see Batman . . .

A knock came at her window and she leaped in her seat, giving a little shriek. Alfred. Oh, thank god. She opened the door.

"Sorry to startle you, Miss Dawes." He raised an appraising eyebrow at her. "I see you found your way here despite my instructions."

"Oh, Alfred. You know me better than that."

They were silent a moment. Afraid to speak. "Where can we find him?" Rachel asked, her throat suddenly dry.

"Fifth floor. Follow me."


	8. Seven

Carol Fox remembered the last time her little brother had asked her for a favor. She had been eighteen and he had been twelve. A skinny, wiry little boy with freckles, glasses, and a perpetual smirk. He was always getting into mischief, even at that age. They'd lived in a tiny house with a basement that he'd claimed his own right from the start, and he was always tinkering away with something or another.

One day he'd ventured into her room looking shiftier than usual, his eyes not meeting hers. It was rare that anything quieted Lucius, but he looked quite troubled in that moment, his skinny little arms swinging awkwardly at his sides and his glasses sliding off his nose.

She'd taken a long drag on her cigarette. "Well?" she'd prompted him, blowing out smoke.

"I, uh." He'd cleared his throat. "I . . . well, I was launching the, uh, bottle rockets downstairs and I—"

"You lit the house on fire?"

"No!" he'd exclaimed, his big eyes bulging even further. "No, no, it's not like that. I just busted up the wall."

"You . . . _what_?"

He took a step backward, cowering from her. His voice was small when he admitted, "I was fiddling around and I launched a bottle rocket into the wall."

"A bottle rocket?" Carol had fumed. "How can a bottle rocket make a hole in the _wall_?"

"Well," Lucius half-chuckled, looking smug and offering no further explanation.

"How big is this hole in the wall," she'd asked menacingly, narrowing her eyes.

Lucius had bitten his lip. "Big?"

Carol had wanted to wring his little neck. It figured that the little pest would knock a hole into the wall when she was watching him. They would come home and see the disaster and, as usual, blame her for his antics. Yes, she was "supposed" to be keeping tabs on him. But how the hell was she supposed to know that he was blowing crud up in his dungeon down there?

But he'd looked so genuinely guilty and afraid that she'd let him off the hook. She drove out and found the matching plaster to fix the hole, and she'd bought a painting at the five and dime to cover it up. She'd used up that whole week's spending money and missed movie night with her friends, but together they'd filled that stupid hole and hidden it so well that their mother never had so much of an inkling of the mess they'd made.

It was that memory, of all things, that was dancing on the fringes of her thoughts as she was focusing on this favor Lucius had thrust upon her. A hole in the wall was one thing. Secretly operating on a dying vigilante—a man half the city was out to kill—was quite another.

This was her job at stake. This was a man's life at stake. This was . . .

Bruce _Wayne_?

Carol didn't dwell on it. She often didn't dwell on her patients when she operated. Call it heartless, call it rude, call it callous—but she only did it for the welfare of the patient. If she spent all too precious time thinking of the human being she was cutting apart or piecing back together, she'd never get anything done right.

It was easy to let it go. It was easy to forget who it was on the table, it was easy to forget that she was in this alone—hell, it was even easy to forget the mind-boggling notion that her little brother had obviously been in league with the Batman all this time.

Of course that was the easy part. The hard part would be keeping this faceless man alive.

"I can't have you hovering there," Carol said without thinking much on the words.

Lucius left the room obligingly, but she hardly noticed. A part of her was aware that he was still peering in from one of the windows and it irked her in the same way it had when as a little boy he'd crowded around her at the typewriter. She was too preoccupied with her business to shoo him any further though, and she knew he was only concerned.

It had been tricky business, trying to get this man inside unnoticed. First there had been the matter of clearing the back hallway on the first floor. Simple enough, thanks to the immaturity of a few of the interns—it only took a few of their fake plastic throw-up pieces to clear out the already quiet, unnoticed hall. The other challenge had been ensuring that the elevator was clear and wouldn't stop on any of the other floors. Thankfully one of the mousier residents who didn't ask many questions had dependably posted "Out of Order" signs on every floor. But then Lucius had taken another precious few minutes trying to detach the Kevlar from the man, which apparently had imbedded electric shock security of some sort, which only a series of codes and locks would undo.

Time had been wasted. Carol knew she was a pretty damn great surgeon, but with all the extra measures they'd had to take and the complete lack of help from anyone else in the hospital, she wasn't sure if she could pull this off.

In a weird sort of way she felt responsible—beyond the normal responsibility she felt as a surgeon, when she knew the patient's life was in her hands. It was the same sort of responsibility she'd felt that time Lucius had blown that hole into the wall. As if it were still her job as the older sister to fix his mistakes, hide his secrets, even if fifty years had passed since she'd ever had to take care of him.

She only wished that this was as easy as blowing money on plaster and slapping a painting over it.

* * *

Gordon didn't want to be up in the operating room. He was still supposed to be patrolling, for one thing. He may be Comissioner now, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have to answer to anyone if he skipped out on the job without so much as a word.

And that aside, he was just too tense. Standing there and watching would only make it worse. He could do absolutely nothing to help upstairs, nothing all his supposed expertise could offer. Instead he stood in the hospital cafeteria with a cup of coffee that he was currently ignoring, staring out at the rain and listening to it beat on the windows.

This whole experience, this whole night—looking back on it he felt as though he'd been walking through a dream. It all just seemed too far-fetched. The invincible Batman, laying helpless in the streets. Succumbing to, of all things, bullet wounds. Such a human, commonplace weapon.

But Bruce Wayne was what made it completely unbelievable. Even sitting here, knowing that Bruce Wayne, or Batman, or whoever the hell Gordon had been dealing with all this time was above him on an operating table, he still couldn't quite grasp the reality of the situation. It was as if someone had photo-shopped Bruce Wayne's head on Batman's body. The image seemed disjointed in his memory, too dim in the dark of early morning to see clearly.

His phone rang. Dazedly he retrieved it from his pocket—the caller ID read GORDON. "Barbara?"

"Jim," she snapped, sounding both relieved and cross. "Where are you?"

"The hospital."

"_What_?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he assured her quickly, "it's just that—"

"Some men are calling me from the station saying you haven't made any contact in hours! That you were supposed to be checking on some _disturbance_ and no one heard from you!"

"Barbara, I can explain—"

"I'm sick of this! I'm sick of thinking that—" She broke off and muttered something incoherent under her breath. "It's not fair that every time you do this . . . I always think that . . ." She pulled herself together and said brusquely, "Well? What's happened, then?"

Gordon scanned the room. The cafeteria was mostly empty, and there was no one within earshot. He lowered his voice and said, "It's the Batman. He was the victim of the . . . disturbance."

"What?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"I think he'll be alright," he lied. Gordon hated to upset his wife anymore than he had to.

"How did you—you took him to a _hospital_?"

"We really didn't have any other choice," Gordon mumbled into the phone.

"They're going to _skin you alive_," she hissed. "You could lose your _job_, James." Gordon winced. She only used "James" when she was exceptionally angry. "And where would we be then? God, think of what you've done! There's money for that thing's head!"

"That _thing_ saved our family," Gordon reminded her as gently as he could manage.

"After he likely put us in danger in the first place!" she shot back instantaneously. Her voice lowered and she sounded exhausted and overwhelmed and she said, "You've already sacrificed so much for this job. We never see you anymore, you're working nonstop, I hardly ever know where you are. How could you possibly put everything on the line and ruin that, after we've all given up so much for it?"

What Gordon wanted to say was, _Because __**he **__puts everything on the line for Gotham and asks nothing in return. Because we owe him our lives. Because there would be nothing to give up in the first place, had he not saved it. _

Instead he said softly, "Believe me, this entire situation is being contained."

"Are you so sure?" she asked lowly.

He pursed his lips. No, he wasn't. And she made a valid point: if he should be discovered secretly hiding and releasing the wounded Batman, he would lose his position as Commissioner and have absolutely no fallback job with enough income to support his family.

Before he could finish thinking and reply, Barbara cut him off. "Call the station. Make something up, I don't even care what. Just fix this before you put our children in danger again."

He kept the phone up to his ear until he heard a dialtone, and even then he remained still, absorbing her words. He loved his wife and children more than anything in the world. His own father had never been around for him, and he'd decided from a young age that he would grow up and be the man his father never had been. In every way he tried to be involved in their lives, attending little Barbara's karate tournaments or Jimmy's orchestra concerts whenever he could. Barbara may accuse him of not being there for them, but if he'd had a choice he would never miss an event as long as he lived.

But what Barbara needed to understand was that this was so much more than their compact little family. It was the whole of Gotham at stake, thousands of other families like their own, most of whom were not as well off as they were. It wasn't a question of whether or not he could be there for his family. It was a question of whether or not he was selfish enough to turn his back on the rest of Gotham for them.

He sighed. Now his coffee was cold, a pointless notion because he knew he wasn't going to drink it anyway. He moved his cell phone from his ear and speed-dialed the station, racing to create an excuse for his mysterious absence as he listened to it ring.

* * *

When they'd arrived, Lucius Fox had told them to wait in a room on the fourth floor. He'd seemed surprised at Rachel's presence but did not let it rattle him and thankfully made no objection. If anything, he set into motion faster, pulling them away from the window that peered into the operating room.

But Rachel had still seen. Bruce's ashen, lifeless face. The shock of blood that made it impossible to see the source of it. Rachel had seen plenty of gore in her line of work, but how odd that it was someone she knew, someone she loved. It had never been someone she loved before.

Alfred was more composed than she was. It was an almost dream-like feeling—he led her back to the stairs, a firm hand on her shoulder, directing her to where she needed to go. She made no effort to think for herself and let him lead her down. She was too stunned to protest and too shaken to think for herself. The last time she had been so absolutely reliant on another human being she'd been . . . well, with Ramirez in that building, just before she'd almost been blown to pieces.

She took a seat across from Alfred, too dazed for a moment to speak.

"He was shot," she said throatily. Her voice didn't seem like it belonged to her.

Alfred nodded solemnly.

"But he's still alive."

Another nod. Rachel sensed Alfred didn't much feel like speaking, but she had to ask, "What's going to happen to him?"

Instantly she felt foolish. It was an immature, irrational question to ask. But she meant it in so many different ways. How were they going to hide the screaming, conspicuous, fear-inducing icon that was Batman in a hospital that had already proven its vulnerability to the Joker? How was Bruce ever going to live through this and be the same as he was? And even if by some miracle he did fully recover, how would she know he was still Bruce? How would she know if she loved him?

Would he be as stubborn and thoughtless as ever and continue playing Batman if he made it through this?

The thoughts were all too unbearable. If he . . . died—well, then of course the whole world would know who he was. The infamous Bruce Wayne and the infamous Batman couldn't hide from the limelight, even in death. In a way she wanted them to know. All the men who'd ever muttered about Bruce not living up to the standards of his parents, all those hardly-hushed comments about his character that Bruce pretended not to hear—Rachel knew it gnawed at him because she could see him flinch even if no one else could. How she would relish spitting that in their faces. Bruce was more than Thomas Wayne could _ever_ be.

But that satisfaction would be entirely empty and worthless if Bruce weren't there.

Alfred never answered the question. He didn't have an answer to give. Rachel supposed there was a first time for everything, wasn't there?

Instead the old man said after a few minutes, "He's terrified of bats."

Rachel snorted without meaning to. What an odd thing to say. "Bruce has always had a backward way about him," she acknowledged, her face reddening in embarrassment at her reaction.

"I don't think you ever realized how much you meant to him. Even when you two were little . . ." Alfred was looking at the ground, lost in the thought. Rachel felt her throat constrict. "Sometimes he would barely utter a word for days, and you'd come over and he'd light up and become a different person. He's different around you, you know. The way he was before."

"He's not a little boy anymore," Rachel said, her tone regretful. "I doubt he feels the same way now."

"In all due respect, Miss Dawes, I think differently on the matter."

She sighed deeply, her breath hitching with pent up emotion. "When you're little you just assume you've got forever. But we grew up and everything changed." She smiled ruefully. "I became mortal and Bruce became invincible."

"Well," Alfred said gruffly. "Not quite."

The door opened softly and Rachel looked up to see Commissioner Gordon. Her eyes widened upon recognizing him, but she immediately shrank back, remembering she was supposed to be dead. Too late she averted her gaze, trying to pretend not to know him.

Gordon wasn't a fool. "Rachel Dawes?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

Dumbstruck, he managed, "I don't understand. You're dead."

"It's a long story."

"I'll bet." He sank into a chair and laughed lowly. "This night . . ." he muttered exhaustedly. "Oh, God, this night."

Rachel nodded her agreement and something unusual caught her eye—her wet, bare feet. Her shoes . . . she'd left them outside the manor when she'd run to her car. She was completely barefoot.

"Oh, God, this night," she echoed, laughing her own empty laugh.


	9. Eight

Lucius had not so much as budged in two hours. The others were downstairs—as far as he was aware Alfred and Gordon had arrived, and suddenly the long-assumed dead Rachel Dawes had emerged from nowhere. He'd processed this information dully, letting it slowly seep through his skin. It was as if there were some barrier buffering him from the rest of the world. Nothing could shock him now.

He was starting to nod off when the door opened slowly. Carol, leaving the operating room, trying not to wake him. If he hadn't so instantly perked his ears to the reassuringly constant beep of the heart monitor inside, he would have shot up the second she walked through the door.

"I've done all I can do," Carol said, grimacing at her own words.

"You're certain . . . ?"

She scowled at him. "You think I ever do less than the best I can?" she asked crossly.

"No," said Lucius with a sigh.

"Then don't give me that look," she snapped. A quizzical expression must have crossed his face then and she blurted, "Oh, you know what I'm talking about. Like I'm just supposed to _fix_ everything for you. Well let me tell you, _Lucius_—"

"I understand," he said lowly. She was overreacting, but she was stressed. He knew how worked up Carol was in surgeries. Whether it were a simple case of appendicitis or as nerve-racking as multiple bypasses, she focused with such an intensity that at times Lucius wondered how she could possibly have anything left in her system. And this couldn't have been easy, dealing with the Batman on top of it all.

She huffed. "I'm going . . . I'll be right back, I need a glass of water. Keep an eye on him until I get back."

As his sister was leaving he had a fleeting desire to say something to her, but he didn't know what he could say that would make her understand how grateful he was for this. He supposed she already knew, or she wouldn't have done this for him in the first place. She was always picking up after him.

Quietly he entered the room, his heart sinking a little in his chest when he saw the remnants of blood in the room. Bruce was laying so still on the pallet he might have been made of wax, were it not for the slight falling and rising of his chest as he breathed. Lucius eyed his sister's handiwork, neat stitches that would inevitably scar and join the grotesque display of gashes already marring his chest and shoulders.

Lucius thought it bizarre how peaceful the man looked. It was rare that Lucius ever saw him without a cocky smile plastered on his face or a black mask obscuring his features. Now he just seemed so strikingly young that Lucius had to struggle to assign him an age. How old was Gotham's faceless hero? Barely out of his twenties, if even. At that age Lucius had still been puttering around wondering what he was going to do with his life, and here was Bruce, already a hero in his own right.

Bruce winced in his sleep. Obviously she'd given him something to knock him out, escape the pain. Lucius fiddled with his coat button, fidgeting and restless, knowing how much Bruce hated being unconscious. It was one of his glitches, one of his odd quirks that allowed him to _be_ Batman—he hated sleeping, he hated the idea of being unaware of what was happening. There was no man on earth as constantly alert as he was. Lucius knew that it scared him more than anything, being powerless. Not that Bruce had ever told him so, but Lucius had known Bruce for years. Long enough to know the man's weaknesses and strengths.

It was enough to make him wonder how all this had happened. A nagging doubt had been pestering him this whole night—Bruce was never caught off-guard. Often he knew another person's intentions long before they did, instantly able to gage a complete stranger the moment he met their eyes. Yet somehow he'd gotten close enough for someone to do this to him.

Somehow it didn't add up.

Carol was in the doorway, staring listlessly.

"You should get some sleep," said Lucius, seeing how spent she appeared.

She shook her head, swallowing a gulp of cold water. "Like anyone could sleep in this dump. Besides, someone's gotta watch him." Lucius was about to protest but she cut him off. "Go downstairs and tell the fan club he's okay."

Lucius nodded. "You're right." He should have thought of that himself—he just wasn't quite thinking of the present so much as he was dwelling on the past.

He thought it would take awhile to find what floor they were all staying on. He was hoping they would try to remain inconspicuous—the police commissioner and the ghost of a blonde Rachel Dawes were by no means commonplace in a hospital—but he should have known better, because he found the three of them in an otherwise empty waiting room right beside the elevator on the fourth floor, poised to get up at any moment when the elevator doors opened.

All three sets of eyebrows raised when he entered the room. Rachel shot up at once, her eyes stained and her cheeks flaming. Lucius didn't have the heart to look at Alfred or Gordon.

"Is he alright?" Rachel burst.

Lucius tried to smile. "For now."

* * *

_At once the images lightened—the distant faces and dark flashes of memories dissolved. It felt as if he had been in the shadows for years, trying to fight his way out, gasping for breath. He'd been reaching into the abyss and trying to grab a handhold to stop himself from spinning for so long that he'd begun to think he was trapped in a tunnel that would never end. He'd stopped fighting, he was too tired, he was too fed up with watching the images assaulting his consciousness . . . he was giving up. _

_And there was a sudden unexplainable calm. The scene was so pristine and clear that he might have actually been living it. He knew these walls, he knew that table, and oh, God, did he know that woman standing there at the counter. _

_At first he didn't speak. He was afraid she'd disappear again, spiraling away from him uncontrollably. _

_So she spoke first. "Did Tommy brush his teeth?" she asked, without looking up. _

_What an illogical thing to say. Bruce frowned in confusion. Rachel was standing with her back to him in his kitchen, her hair perfectly coiffed, her calves long and appealing in the highest set of heels he'd ever seen her wear. He could only tell it was her because of the birthmark on her back—he'd only seen it a few times in his life but he would never forget it. Now it was exposed, a slinky halter dress flowing down to her knees. _

_He looked down at his shoes and saw that he, too, was well-dressed. In a suit and tie. But he knew this wasn't real, this wasn't where he was supposed to be . . . _

_"Rachel," he rasped. _

_She was adjusting her earrings. "I was hoping he'd go to bed without a fuss with that new nightlight in his room," she said offhandedly. _

_"I . . ." _

_When she turned around he took an astonished step back. Was she . . . pregnant? _

_Oh, God. This was awkward. Who the hell had done _that_ to her? _

_"You promise we'll be back before eleven? I hate leaving him . . ." she fretted, biting her lip. She gave a nervous little laugh. "But Alfred's here. I'm being silly." _

_Then suddenly Alfred was in the room, coming up from behind. Looking a bit more weathered than Bruce remembered, but still the same. "Rachel," he chuckled, "believe me, I can handle a sleeping two-year-old for a few hours. You forget that I once had to deal with a young Master Bruce."_

_She laughed. Oh, that laugh. Bruce had thought he'd never hear it again._

_"I pulled the car up front," said Alfred, gesturing toward the foyer. He gave Rachel a doubtful once-over. "And you're certain you can manage in those heels in your . . . condition?" _

_Rachel rolled her eyes. "Do you two hear yourselves? Honestly, you'd think I was carrying around a six hundred pound dumbbell. For your information, Bruce has already compulsively loaded the car with the most hideous pair of loafers, lest my heels break under the strain of my enormity—" She broke off laughing again, and Bruce found himself joining her. It hurt his chest, but it felt so relieving to laugh . . . as if there were absolutely nothing wrong with the world. _

_Why had he been so upset earlier? Whatever it was didn't even matter now. Rachel was safe, she was here. Standing right beside him, her cheeks full and smiling. Her hair . . . brown. What a relief. _

_She cocked her head at him curiously. "What's the matter?" _

_His voice was choked with emotion. "Nothing. Rachel . . ." _

_"We don't have to go tonight. I know it's our first time leaving Tommy on his own . . . we can just stay home. Gordon will cover for us, like he always does." _

_"Rachel." _

_She was disappearing again. No. _No.

_Her eyes searched his, glinting happily in the dim light of the kitchen. She patted his arm lightly and took his hand and he felt its softness in his palm. Yet she was fading, blurring away from him. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't have all of this right here, right now, and then lose it all again. _

_"Bruce. Bruce?" _

* * *

Rachel hadn't anticipated she'd be alone in the room with Bruce when he'd started to stir. It had been two days and he'd shown no signs so far of waking—Rachel had barely slept, despite Carol's many assurances that Bruce was doing considerably well, especially under the circumstances.

The past few days Bruce had been under constant surveillance by at least one member of their frantic circle—between Gordon, Lucius, Alfred, and Carol, there was no chance of anything happening without one of them catching it. But for the first time Rachel was completely by herself in the room with him. She had finally convinced all of the equally stubborn men to leave, for God's sake, because they hadn't slept at all. At least Rachel could easily sneak in naps in the chairs (all her life she'd marveled at her ability to instantly and heavily fall asleep). The rest of them were starting to nod off in standing positions. She'd booted them out in concern, although in all honestly they might have fled because they were too exhausted to put up with her nagging for another second.

But for all her concern about their exhaustion she wished she'd had the forethought to keep at least one other person in the room with her. Honestly, what the hell was she supposed to do? Call a nurse?

He flinched again and she stood, hovering over him uselessly.

"Bruce?" Her voice was barely audible.

She stood there for a few endless minutes, still as a frightened animal. If he woke she would have no idea what she should do. What if he saw her and flipped out? What if he couldn't remember she was alive and he hurt himself by jumping up or something? Should she hide? No, of course he would figure out there was someone in the room, he was Bruce Wayne. Should she leave the room completely? But then he'd be alone!

"Rachel."

She hiccupped in surprise. He couldn't have just said her name.

Could he?

Tentatively she stepped forward, staring as his face contorted. She could hear his breathing quicken, but she didn't think it was any cause for alarm. His fingers twitched and she reached for them, clasping his hand in hers.

"Rachel . . ."

Suddenly she was staring into shock of his swimming brown eyes. He was staring right up at her.

"Well, hello," she said wryly, her voice more choked up than she thought it would be.

"Rachel." He closed his eyes again and a smile tugged at his lips. He sighed deeply and said in a breath, "Please don't leave again."

She squeezed his hand meaningfully. "Never."


End file.
